


The Ellison Reports

by Candy_A



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Drama, M/M, Series: The Diary Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-01-14
Updated: 1999-01-14
Packaged: 2017-12-11 04:39:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 49,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/794053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Candy_A/pseuds/Candy_A
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim writes his own journal of his experiences and his relationship with Blair.<br/>This story is a sequel to The Sandburg Chronicles.<br/><b>Archivist note</b>: This story has been split into four parts for easier loading.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a follow up to "The Sandburg Chronicles". It can be read as a stand alone piece, as references to events in the first story are pretty easy to understand on their own. Its timeline runs just beyond the end of the second season. Regarding the guys' third season dalliances--for this story's purposes, I'm ignoring them. (I love having the power to annihilate the BOTWs!) The entries are numbered to correspond with the episodes until the final ep of the second season. Numbers after the "Sleeping Beauty" reference are just, well, entry numbers. Jim is not as anal as he's accused of being, because he didn't organize his diary with titles.
> 
> Thank you to my ever-loyal beta reader and sounding board, Virginia Call. ;-) 

Due to the length of this story, it's been split into four parts for easier loading.

## The Ellison Reports

by Candy Apple

Author's disclaimer: All characters having appeared or been mentioned on the UPN series, "The Sentinel" are the property of Paramount Televison and/or Pet Fly Productions. All I know for sure is that they aren't mine, and I'm not making any money off this. I _am_ having alot of fun.

* * *

The Ellison Reports - part one  
(Transcribed from Jim's diary by Candy Apple) 

Entry #1 

I've always been told you're supposed to confess all your honest feelings when you start this kind of a journal or it doesn't really serve it's purpose. Okay. Here's an honest feeling. I hate writing these damned entries. It's only marginally less annoying that writing those damned reports every time I stop a jaywalker. 

I've also always wondered what possible good something like this does. It's not as if the unnamed person or entity to whom you're speaking is going to do anything about your situation. I did read one time that a good way to deal with problems that frustrate or frighten you was to write about them. So here I am. I'm frustrated, though a little less frightened than I was a couple days ago. But I'm jumping ahead of myself here. 

I spent eighteen months in the jungle in Peru. That was not by choice. While I was there, I found I had a knack of picking up on things before anyone else did. I don't know a better way to explain it than that. I heard things before others heard them--sometimes they never _did_ end up hearing them--spotted things in the distance way before anyone else, plus my senses of smell and taste seemed so acute at times that it was a curse. It was great for tracking, but lousy for living in any degree of peace. I was able to discern things through my sense of touch that quite frankly surprised me. I didn't think much about it after I left the jungle. I thought it was just one more way the human body can miraculously adapt to its surroundings and challenges. 

Everything seemed to be back to normal when I got home. Well, as normal as you feel after spending 18 months in the jungle. The whole pace was hard to catch up with again. Maybe that was the biggest adjustment. I had plenty to do with the tribe, but I didn't need a Franklin Planner to keep track of it, nor did I have to be obsessed with how many minutes it took me to complete something. I still refuse to be a slave to a calendar book, but I had to get over my habit of just figuring if the job was done by sundown, I was okay. Oddly enough, my superiors at the PD are a bit more exact than that. When the chief says "on my desk by 3:00", he means it. Stuff like that was hard getting used to again. There were days I wanted to throw in the towel and go back to the tribe. 

Then I met Carolyn. She was intelligent, talented at her job, confident--and not too hard on the eyes, either. She was in every sense an equal, and it was a real pleasure to work with her on a number of cases at the PD. Maybe I was confusing my enjoyment of her company and my respect for her ability for love. I don't know. In any event, we got married. It was a disaster from the start. I have to admit that I tend to be traditional about marriage--I don't mean I expect a woman to stay home and have babies. One of the main things that attracted me to Carolyn in the first place was seeing her in action on the job. But I guess I wanted to take care of her and provide for her, and I didn't understand--still don't--why calling her "baby" or "sweetheart" pissed her off so much. I thought she knew I respected her as an equal. I always kind of hoped she'd call me something besides "Jimmy". I despise that nickname anyway. What's wrong with "honey"? "Lover"? Something besides "Jimmy". 

I'm really getting off-topic here. Maybe there's something to this diary-writing thing. I never really thought too much about all this--never realized it still nagged at me. 

Carolyn and I finally called it quits after a couple years of misery. It was better to end it, but it still hurt like hell because it was her idea. The way she did it--man, all she had to do was tell me she wanted a divorce. She didn't have to list off everything she wasn't getting out of our relationship. By the end of the discussion she had me trying to promise her all the things I could do differently or better or whatever. How pathetic is that? I never really stopped to think about the fact that one thing she said was true--we weren't meant to be together, and we weren't cut out to be married to each other. It just seemed like if I admitted that and said "okay", I was admitting to being "cold, unresponsive, insensitive, disinterested, dispassionate, set in my ways, unimaginative in bed...oh, yeah, and uncultured. In other words, a waste of good oxygen. At first, she was just going to tell me that she was unhappy and wanted a divorce. Ever the detective, I had to know "why". Not smart. 

When Carolyn divorced me, I threw myself into my job--oh, I forgot--I was "more in love with my work" when I _was_ married. Guess that makes me downright obsessed now. But that job has been my mainstay, and I'm good at it. There are times it isn't much different from holding the border with a bunch of tribesman. As corny as it sounds, there's this "tribe" of cops holding the border against an enemy that comes in a remarkable number of shapes, sizes, ages and walks of life. 

Maybe I got so rattled by what started happening to me because it was interfering with my abilities as a cop, and that's about all I've got left that means anything to me. 

I was on a stakeout, in a tent, working on a major case. It was similar to being back in the jungle, in that I was on my own, living in primitive conditions, keeping watch. I started noticing things again--hearing things louder, seeing things more clearly and from farther away... Then it seemed like all of a sudden, my senses were attacking me. Noises deafened me, lights almost blinded me...I had dinner with Carolyn and thought the food had been purposely dowsed with an absurd level of spice as some sort of joke--but it was fine when Carolyn checked it. It was like having all my senses on some kind of turbo charge. I lost it and kissed her, right out on the sidewalk in the rain. She informed me that if I had kissed her like that before, we'd still be married. Well, if I had kissed her like that before, without her consent, without warning, in public, in the rain, with lots of tongue, she'd have decked me. I always felt like I needed an appointment with her to get physical. This time, I had to experience what it was like to just indulge that sense of touch and taste right there and then. I felt like I was a slave to my senses. 

I've got a news bulletin for her--if kissing her had felt that way when we were married, we'd have never left the house. 

What was so bizarre about all this was that I could get so focused on just one sensation that everything else blacked out around it. If it hadn't been for Sandburg, I'd be the hood ornament on a garbage truck right now, thanks to that little problem. 

I guess that brings me to explaining how I dealt with this mess. I went to the doctor. Logical. Must be something physiological going on. They ran tests. 

While I'm waiting for the results, in strides this confident little guy with a pony tail and glasses trying to tell me he's my doctor. I should have known I was on the edge of insanity when I believed him. Then he gives me a business card and tells me to go see an anthropologist. What's more unbelievable is that I went. By then, I was reaching. The tests showed nothing, my senses were still crazy...I couldn't keep living that way. I had to do _something_. Going to see Blair Sandburg was a last resort. 

I already felt like I was making a colossal mistake when I reached his office and found not a stodgy old professor in a moldy tweed jacket, but the pounding of primal drums and this frizzy-haired guy dancing around like an idiot. It took me a minute to recognize him from the hospital. His hair was out of the pony tail, he was dressed in a white shirt and printed vest, dancing around his office, minus his glasses, babbling on about the Stones or basements in Seattle or something. I almost bolted. If I hadn't been desperate, I would have. Or would I? There was something about him that drew me in, as much as I hated to admit it to myself. I took an inventory of him right then and there. It doesn't take me long to do that, with everything on his heightened level. I made a profile in my mind of his face, his eyes, his hair, his body, his scent--I know this is sounding a little weird, but that's not how I mean it. I just can't help putting people through a sort of on-the-spot inspection when I see them. Plus, when I was in the jungle, I could smell things like fear, and I knew when people were lying to me. 

This guy was as nervous as a cat, but he was sincere. So I listened. When he started telling me I was some kind of throwback, I got angry. I was there for help...solutions. And all I was getting was a bunch of anthropological bullshit. So I grabbed him and slammed him against the wall. Looking back, it was a fairly shitty thing to do since he's a head shorter and a hell of a lot lighter than I am. But he's a spunky one. He looked a little panicky, but he didn't back down either. When I cooled off enough to realize that I really didn't have the right to come into his office and rough him up, I let go of him. And the more he talked, the more I listened. But it all still seemed too damned _academic_. I needed _practical_ solutions. Furthermore, I don't want to be somebody's guinea pig. The last thing I want is to be Cascade's answer to the Elephant Man, with Sandburg in his straw hat, bringing in the circus crowds to see his freak. 

He was still babbling about something when I took off out of there. I already felt like I'd made a mistake going there in the first place. I didn't want him chasing me across the grounds hollering about my problem. 

One minute I was watching some kids throwing a frisbee, the next minute, I was on my face under a moving garbage truck with Sandburg. Then he was up and pacing around carrying on about it. I was wondering how long I could live with that energy level. I still have days where I'd still like to slip a valium in his herbal tea just to settle him down a little. 

I guess seeing that I was as out of control as I was, I felt like I had no choice but to trust him, since he seemed to be the only one who understood what was wrong with me and thought he had an answer for it. Not a cure, but a way to control it. 

I never would have pictured working with Sandburg as something good for my police career. I still don't have a clue how to get him past Simon. But he's teaching me how to channel my heightened senses to look for clues--I never would have thought of using my enhanced eyesight to shoot a bullet _into_ someone else's gun. But Sandburg's gotten me _thinking_ the right way to handle this. I still don't feel like I have a 100% grip on it or anything, but I don't feel as frantic as I did. I think it's conquerable. 

The kid's decent back up, and he can help me get this thing with my senses under control--he tells me I'm a "Sentinel". He's got volumes of ratty-looking notes, old books and neatly-typed papers about this sentinel thing. The point is, it's a major relief to have someone else to talk to who doesn't think I'm nuts. Suddenly, it seems like my career isn't destined for the toilet, and I don't feel like I'm losing my mind. That by itself is everything. 

Entry #2 

I told him not to use that damn "thin blue line" thing. What does he do first chance he gets? You guessed it. I pity this kid's parents. Or maybe I blame them. He's never heard of doing as he's told. He's late a lot, and he never shuts up. Furthermore, he thinks he knows everything--and what's a damn sight more annoying than that is that he almost does. I've never seen anybody know so much about so many things. But then I've never known too many geniuses, and for all his quirks, this guy is one. 

So why was I so worried about him when all that shit went down at the station? He's only been around a couple of weeks, but he's helped me a lot in that time. Part of it is that I feel responsible for him. People talk about ride-a-longs with the cops like it's no big deal. It's a _very_ big deal. Or it should be. When you take an unarmed civilian into your realm of armed criminals and armed cops and high speed chases and potential disasters like these, it's a damned huge responsibility. And Sandburg, who hates guns and violence and belongs in the quiet halls of a university library, trusts me to watch out for him in my world. The first time something major happens, and he's in danger, he's alone. God, I felt guilty about that. I would have never left him there if I thought there was anything dangerous about it, but he was in the middle of a whole building full of police personnel. This has _never_ happened in Cascade. In most cities. But it had to happen here, now. 

There was no way I was letting Kincaid get away. Going for that helicopter was a little over the edge, but not only was the lunatic getting away, he had Sandburg with him. It would be a pretty sure bet he'd kill him and dump him when he'd served his purpose. 

I've got to hand it to him. For an anthropologist, he's a pretty decent cop in a tight situation. He kicked Kincaid out of the helicopter--and though I wouldn't have chosen to have him swinging from my legs, it beat getting my head blown off. 

It was kind of a relief in one way dropping the kid off at his place. I was tired, and all I wanted to do was go home and crash. He was all wound up tight and ready to go all night. He seemed disappointed that I wouldn't go out for a beer with him, but I'm sure he's got tons of friends at the university he can dig up to go pub crawling. I outgrew that scene a few years ago. 

It's funny. He wears me out when he's around, but for some damn reason, I miss him when he isn't. I guess I miss having someone to talk freely to--I can't exactly publicize this thing with my senses. He's got a real manner about him--a way of lighting up when he sees me. He probably does that naturally. He's a people person. And he did say I was his thesis on feet. For an egghead like Sandburg, that's probably the ultimate turn-on. 

Entry #3 

Sometimes I still can't believe Danny's dead. You know, I didn't see him as much as I should have anymore. People mature, grow up, grow apart... Danny had his own life, and a busy one. He went into the academy, then decided to go for his degree. I was so proud of him for making that choice. Danny was always smart, and he could be a good student with his eyes closed. Carrying a "B" average in high school was nothing special to him. It was just what happened naturally. So when he died, he was only two semesters away from his bachelor's degree. All those hours studying...and for what? Now that lively young brain is rotting six feet under. 

Death really has no mercy. I guess I should have learned that by now. When my mother died, I was too little to really figure it all out. I just knew she wasn't there anymore. And that seemed pretty merciless. She was young, pretty...and she was my mom. If death could take her away just like that...shit, it couldn't have any mercy. 

I lost it in the alley. Danny's blood was oozing out of him. His life was running out on the cement in the rain, and somewhere in the shadows was the son of a bitch who did it. I was so...I don't know...I was overwhelmed. If I'd been thinking, maybe I could have gone after Juno right then. 

When I saw that damned red dot heading right for Blair, it hit me pretty hard how much I've come to depend on him. I yelled for him to get down, and he did, but he made his way over to me right away. Like always, he was there to help. I know he does most of what he does for his dissertation, but that night, he was really there for me. I don't remember everything that happened, but I know he was there, making me accept Danny's death, and then trying his best to calm me down, which couldn't have been easy. I know I made it hard for him, but he hung right in there. By the time the other units were arriving, I had my act marginally together. Thanks to Blair, I didn't make an ass out of myself in front of all my colleagues. 

He tried to offer to come over or spend time with me that night, but I brushed him off. Truth be told, I was embarrassed. I don't like to put on big emotional scenes, and that had been a whopper. I wanted to get away from him as fast as possible. Then I had a beer with Beverly, which lasted a whole fulfilling ten minutes. If that. She took one sip of beer, I said two or three sentences about Danny, and she got up to leave. I guess I would have been better off with Sandburg. I _really_ felt that way when my hearing and taste just...shorted out. I thought about calling him, but he'd have run me through paces of tests and experiments, and I didn't have anything left to give anyone by then. So I went to bed and finally dropped into a sort of stupor that's somewhere between sleeping and waking. 

We nailed the Juno brothers. I say "we" because Blair really hung in there with me. He didn't have to be part of my illegal wire-tap operation, but he stood by me. He kept me from dismembering Juno on the courthouse steps, which was no small item. He's turning into one of the best friends I've ever had. But I have to keep remembering that when his dissertation is finished, he's history. Getting too used to him being around is kind of pointless. 

It's been almost a month since Danny died. Blair visited the cemetery with me after we nailed Juno. He brought flowers. I didn't think of that. They were hyacinths, and he told me some story about a mythical god whose blood spilled and flowers grew...I wish I could remember the legend now. It was beautiful at the time. I'll have to ask him sometime. Maybe at dinner. I told him I'd treat tonight, and I'm going to be late if I don't get moving. I came up with something related to my senses to ask him as an excuse to drag him back out for dinner tonight. Couldn't very well tell him I was just lonely and wanted to hear the flower story again. 

Entry #4 

Only Sandburg could live next door to a drug lab and not suspect anything. If it were anyone else, I'd be suspicious that he was one of their customers. But there he is in this God-awful neighborhood, all by himself in a drafty old warehouse, wearing gloves while he watches TV, studying monkeys. And while he's taking notes on Larry the ape, the guys next door are manufacturing enough junk to keep the street trade up and running. 

The first thing that crossed my mind when I showed up there with the video camera he'd asked to borrow was that he wasn't going to get by long living there alone. I've known right along he lived in a rough area, but maybe I didn't think about it...or care...until now. Maybe it's because he rides with me that I feel so damned...protective of him. Maybe because he's smaller. I don't know. He's no sissy. He can take care of himself. It's not like he needs me to play daddy to him. 

I still can't believe sometimes that I was so thoroughly enjoying watching TV, sharing a bowl of popcorn with Sandburg and a small ape. 

After the explosion, and when some of the furor of police procedure was winding down, I went to check on Sandburg. There he was, loading everything he could fit into his car. It was like a four-wheel equivalent of the rag tied to the end of a stick. When he started asking about staying with me, it was hard to keep refusing him. It was hard not to offer in the first place. Ape notwithstanding, the idea of having that warm, loyal little bundle of energy camping out in my drafty barn of a loft was pretty appealing. But it was only temporary, and he would be off and running again. I didn't want to let myself in for the adjustment from companionship to living alone. I didn't make it real smoothly after Carolyn left, but I made it. I don't want to do that again. The whole damned relationship with Sandburg unnerves me. I need to be careful not to get too attached to him. This is only a temporary thing. 

I came downstairs the next morning after he'd stayed over, and he was cooking breakfast. It smelled like coffee and eggs and toast, and there was somebody there chattering away. Much nicer way to wake up than coming downstairs and eating a stale bagel by myself. I teased him about courtship rituals. I don't know where the hell that remark came from. Except for the fact that as good a cook as he is, if Sandburg had boobs, I'd probably marry him. 

I'm glad things worked out all right for Gaines. He's a good guy. We all need to slow down and learn a little when we're young and starting out. He's no different. I think he finally understands that nothing that goes down under Simon's command has anything to do with color, either way. 

I did get a kick out of watching Sandburg carve out his own little niche among all those elderly people. How did this conversation get back to him again anyway? 

I didn't get a kick out of what Larry did to the loft. 

Entry #5 

Every time I think I've seen it all, something comes along that's even weirder than what I'm used to. Lash was one of those "somethings". What was so remarkably dangerous about this guy was his ability to fit in. We were all awed by his expertise as he helped us track the killer, and then he turns out to be committing the murders and feeding the press himself. 

I never honestly believed that Blair would shoot off his mouth to the press. I know he's not a cop, but he's far from stupid. His antics at the church didn't help matters, but I really wasn't angry with the kid. He's inexperienced with this stuff and he thought he was helping. I know he felt responsible for Lash getting away, and ultimately, he was the one who paid for that mistake. 

When Simon suggested I should "cut him loose", something inside of me twisted. I can't. Frankly, that scares the hell out of me. I didn't want him to move in because I didn't want this to happen. I didn't want to depend on him. To _need_ him in any emotional way. I know I need help with this Sentinel thing, and I'm grateful for all the zillions of little things he comes up with to help me live with my senses, control them, and often put them to optimum use in the field. But I didn't want to need him emotionally. I haven't had good luck with that. Everyone I ever needed, I've had to let go. So I've pretty much resolved not to do that anymore. But Blair didn't take no for an answer. He moved in, but he did more than that. He just adds so much by...being there. He fills a void I didn't think I'd ever have filled again. 

He handled himself with Lash like a real pro. He was in a hopeless situation, but he kept the maniac talking. And he had enough spirit to get right in Lash's face even though he thought he was going to die. I don't know if I'd have handled it as well as he did or not. Most of the tight situations I've been in haven't been quite that hopeless. But being bound in chains, in an empty warehouse, with a deranged serial killer is about as hopeless as it gets. 

I followed their voices, and when I saw that bastard trying to force something down Blair's throat, I wanted to kill him with my bare hands. When I eventually did kill Lash, it was necessary. I had no choices. But pumping five bullets into somebody never made me feel relief before. Sure, you're relieved when you're out of danger, but killing another human being isn't something I generally feel good about. When I looked down at his dead face, and thought about what he'd put Blair through--the full extent of which I didn't even know yet--and that he was planning to kill him...it was all I could do not to smile. Maybe that makes me a throwback just like Blair said I was. But I think of the nutty professor as one of my own now, and I take care of my own. 

When I got back to Blair, he was a little out of it, but he rallied fast. When he figured out I wasn't Lash, he got this pained expression on his face, and I knew he was working hard not to break down in front of me. I went to work on the chains, trying to keep up a reassuring dialogue while I did it. I told him Lash was dead, it was over--things like that. 

I pulled him out of the chair and supported him. I knew he needed to get his land legs back, and he was a little woozy from the drugs. I let myself feel the impact of how scared I had been of losing him. I had pushed that down the whole time I worked at rescuing him, because the magnitude of the feeling blindsided me. I didn't know he meant _that much_ to me. I knew he meant more to me than I wanted him to. But not _that much_. 

He was exhausted, and he needed to let go. I pulled him into my arms and held him close to me, rubbing his back and trying to reassure him that it was okay to let it out. That everything was safe now, and that I was there to look out for him and that it was okay to lean on me. The tears finally let loose, and he cried for a long time while I held him. I know he was scared, but the drug was also removing a lot of his inhibitions. 

It felt way too good to have that warm body clinging to me. I let myself experience Blair completely in that few minutes. I opened up my senses, took in his scent, his temperature, the feeling of his skin and muscles and bones, the soft texture of his hair, the sound of his heartbeat and breathing and his crying. That's when I felt the nipple ring. I knew that would get him if I brought that up later. I smiled at the thought. He was alive, okay, in my arms and coming home with me. He'd be healthy and alive and around the next day to joke with. He'd be there to fix breakfast and listen with that intent expression when I talked and mess up the loft and leave the bathroom smelly and worry about me and give me that big smile of his... 

By the time Blair stopped crying, I was as afraid as he was when he was with Lash. I realized that the warm armload snuggling against me was the most important thing in my life. I felt things for him that I hadn't felt for anyone--not even Carolyn. Blair's smart and capable and independent, but he still needs me sometimes. And it's nice to be needed. He needs me and I need him. He fills up the lonely void and he...shit, I can't believe I have to quote Debbie Boone. I _am_ as pathetic as I think. But he "lights up my life". There, I said it. I think my next move ought to be burning this journal. It's looking more and more like a junior high girl's diary every day. 

I took Blair to the hospital, over all his protests, so they could check him out. I wanted to be sure the drug wasn't toxic, and I also wanted to know for sure than Lash hadn't done anything else to him he wasn't telling me about. 

Once he'd pulled himself together at the scene, Blair was trying to keep up his usual chatter, though it was a little slowed by the drug and his fatigue. I spent most of the time cursing myself for that speech I had given him on learning to detach and distance himself. The poor kid didn't feel like he could let down his defenses and react at all. I could hear every other system in his body screaming out its stress while he was forcing an occasional smile and prattling on. What I told him held true for a cop in the field--or for someone working with cops. But it didn't mean I was going to think less of him for being afraid or traumatized. 

It didn't surprise me that about two hours after we parted company to go to bed, I heard him screaming. It took some doing to bring him out of the nightmare. He did his best to get away from me, and I have to hand it to him, he almost succeeded a couple of times. I hated to scare him more, but I had to nail him down long enough to bring him around. When he woke up, he was shaking like crazy and crying, not really in control of himself at all. I took him in my arms again and sat there rocking him while he cried and told me little fragments about Lash and his nightmare. 

It's been a long time since I held someone I loved close like that. I felt sorry for him that he was having nightmares, but at the same time, I buried my nose in all those soft curls and relished the warm weight of him nestled against me. It's one thing to hold a woman after you've had sex--not that I've really had dozens in my bed since Carolyn, but there have been a couple. But when you have a good physical thing going, sometimes you do the holding thing because you know it's expected. Instead of rolling over and sleeping off the action, you cuddle. But it's something else to hold someone in your arms because they need you and because you love them. God, when did I start loving him? What the hell am I going to do when he's done studying me? How am I going to live in this place alone when he's gone? 

Sometimes I get angry at Sandburg. I want to yell at him and ask him where he thinks he gets off making me feel this way about him when he's just using me for a study subject. I know I can't do that, but it just wells up sometimes and then I snap his head off about something and then get a look at those big sad eyes and feel like a giant asshole. And sometimes when I look at those eyes, I see something beyond academic interest in them. It's like I see a reflection of what I feel. But then he mentions some other curvy co-ed he's been with and I wonder if I'm crazy for even toying with...with what? What is it exactly I'm toying with? And what in hell does loving my best friend have to do with being jealous of his sex partners? Is that what I am? Jealous? 

I think I just need to get out more--"get a life" so to speak. 

The nightmares were almost a nightly occurrence for a while, but they seem to be getting better now. Blair doesn't say anything about Lash when he's awake, so I know that's why it keeps popping out at night. 

Looking back over this entry, and this whole thing with Lash, I know I've got a problem. How in the hell am I going to handle it when he packs up his backpack and says "It's been real, man", collects his doctorate and moves to some remote third world country to live among the natives? I'm not going to handle it. It's going to rip my guts out. And I only have myself to blame for letting him get to me this way. 

Entry #6 

Just when I think I've found a reason to get pissed off at Blair, he turns around and tells me he's doing it for me. I don't get sick often, but when I do, I feel lousy. And my mood matches it. So while I was staggering around the loft in my robe, nursing a major cold, the sound of tribal jungle music or whatever it was really put me on edge. 

Blair was working on clearing my sinuses. 

The next thing that pissed me off was whatever the stinky pan of weeds was he had on the stove. 

Oh, those were for me too. The music did nothing but make my head pound, and what I could smell of the pan of weeds made my eyes water, but it's the thought that counts. 

The evening went from bad to worse, and I ended up spending most of it swinging from the bottom of a moving train, high on cold medicine. Really. The only reason I'm not dead is because I got a hold of myself enough to think back on some of the work Blair had done with me on zeroing in on one of my senses and blocking out the others. The lights were killing my eyes, driving me nuts, distracting me from everything else. Once I learned to block that out and concentrate on touch and hearing (though not as acutely, because the underside of a train isn't exactly a quiet place), I was able to make my way to the back to hop on the train right-side up again. Then I came to and punched a doctor. As far as I know, a terse letter to the chief was the worst that came of that little error. 

I hated to leave Blair holding the bag--or the gun, as it were. I don't know if he could seriously look another human being in the eyes and then kill him. Our options were a little limited though. It seemed like everything that could go wrong, did. Of course, I could have gotten caught under the train, so I guess not _everything_ that could go wrong, did. 

For all his remedies and witch doctor routines, Blair ended up with my cold a few days after mine got better. I felt kind of guilty. I know I sneezed all over him all the time. He had a lot coming together at the university and we were busy on a couple of cases, and I felt really sorry for him. He won't take the over-the-counter stuff, and when he came staggering out of his room with a flushed face and 103 fever the other morning, I _informed_ him he was calling in sick. I literally had to pry the backpack out of his hand, turn him around and shove him back into his room. 

I had one day of feeling really horrible and running a fever when I had my version of it, but looking back, I had Blair cooking for me and running to the pharmacy for my prescription (I _don't_ have any problem with artificial substances to knock illness) and pumping fluids into me. When it was his turn, Blair was still keeping up his schedule at the university, tagging along with me on one particularly cold, rainy day and then sitting around the station with wet hair and damp clothes for the rest of the afternoon. Nobody was fussing over him to keep warm or lie down or take it easy. It was a wonder he wasn't hospitalized, now that I think about it. 

He almost died of shock when I went back in his room with a basin of water and a washcloth and a pitcher of ice water. He was stunned that I, too, called in and was working at home for the day, and even more flabbergasted that I planned to work on bringing his fever down in a completely natural way, just like he wanted but was too sick to do for himself. 

The sponging off and great quantities of ice water finally got the fever down by early evening. He really unnerved me getting that sick. He finally told me he used to get really sick when he was little and caught a cold. That information would have been helpful before I sneezed in his face a half dozen times and then just the previous day had dragged him all over Cascade in the pouring rain and then let him sit around wet while he was already running a fever. As usual, he'd die before he'd "wimp out" on me, especially in front of the other guys at work. 

I have to admit, somewhat guiltily, that I enjoyed the time we spent together that day. He was quieter, more introspective, and all we had to do to pass the time was talk, since he was in bed and I was sitting there trying to cool him down. We covered a lot of ground. I learned some things about his life, his attitudes. And as usual, I spilled my guts a lot more than I planned to. I think Blair could get a life history out of the Sphinx. 

Entry #7 

Blair's sitting a few feet away, grading papers. He could be home doing that, but instead he's been here with me all day, helping to put the reports on the Brackett mess together. And now, after midnight, he's working at the end of my desk, adding his familiar little clutter to my otherwise pristine and perfectly organized work space. He'll feel my eyes drilling holes into him pretty soon if I don't stop staring at him from behind the monitor. 

I just finished typing up the last of the report, and sent out a couple of e-mails, thanking some people who consulted on the case. Mainly, they just offered opinions which didn't do a hell of a lot, but you never know when you'll need someone's expertise in the future. Now I'm doing this. He's so damned engrossed in those papers that he hasn't noticed yet it's past midnight and we're the last two here. His eyes'll be bloodshot as hell, and he'll probably doze off on me halfway home. He's been up since dawn, putting together notes for his lecture this morning. The class met at 8:00, and since he'd been so tied up wit me and this case, he'd had absolutely zero time to work on that. So he put in a full work day by the time he joined me here after lunch. And now he's put in an eleven-hour day with me. He hasn't asked me a "Sentinel question" all day. He's just been here for me. 

I didn't know I was staring at him with a sappy smile on my face until he looked up and smiled back. 

"You look tired," I said. He does. He looks exhausted. He just kept smiling. 

"We got a lot done today. Pretty much wrapped up the Brackett paperwork." 

"I'm almost done. You want to get a bite to eat?" 

"Can we take it home?" 

"Sure. I'll just finish up here and we'll get going." 

And so I'm back to this briefly. What all that means is that we'll stop at a drive-thru window, get a bag of take-outs, he'll sleep the rest of the way home and then rally long enough to eat part of his with me and then crawl into bed. 

Lee Brackett did drive one point home to me that I've really known all along. Sandburg can't ever publish this dissertation. I didn't care at first. I needed help, so I figured I'd take it and worry about stifling him later. But his whole life is tied up in this dream of getting his Ph.D. I'm not sure just what to do about this. If I tell him that, tell him he can't study me anymore and can't publish what he's got, he'll pack his things and leave. And I wouldn't blame him. To tell him he'd wasted the last several months of his life would probably piss him off. It would piss me off if I were in his position. 

God, it's more despicable to keep this going when I know he can't publish. Or can he? Is it worth it to me to keep him around now and let him have his dissertation and then deal with the consequences? Just one lunatic who got his hands on some old papers Blair had written ended up forcing me to help him steal an airplane. What in the hell is going to come next? Then there's the exhibition factor--do I hear circus music, or is that just my imagination? 

Entry #8 

I've never had a more miserable dinner in my life. It wasn't Drennan's fault. She's good company. We actually could have had an interesting conversation if I hadn't had one ear on Blair all evening. He didn't join us for dinner. Maya arrived right before we ate. I knew it was going to be a disaster. And in a way, it's all my fault. 

I heard their conversation. I try to be ethical about this heightened hearing thing, but I couldn't help it. I had the feeling the kid was going to get hurt in a big way, and I couldn't tune it out. She dumped him. Royally. Did she have to tell him she hated him? I don't know. Kind of reminds me of Carolyn in a way. You can tell someone you don't want them anymore without twisting the knife. Why do people do that to each other? Is that a woman thing, I wonder? I've never been dumped by a man, but speaking from my occasional experience as the "dump-or", I've always tried to make it gentle--polite if possible. But like Carolyn when she left, Maya had to leave plenty of damage behind her. His helpless little "I love you" tore at my heart. He really did fall hard for her. I felt sorry for him and at the same time I wanted to tell him (from experience) "get a little dignity because throwing yourself at her feet isn't going to gain you anything but scuff marks on your ass when she's done wiping them there". 

She left, slithering out quietly. She looked a bit uneasy when she passed me, as if she expected me to say or do something. I wanted to tell her not to let the door hit her in the ass on the way out. I refrained. I have to quit being so overly defensive of Blair. He's a grown man. He can fight his own battles. 

I didn't know what to do with him. If we'd been alone, I'd have gone in there and tried to make him feel a little better. Talked to him a while. Held him while he cried if he'd let me. Judging by his contrite attitude and embarrassment at having fallen in love with her while doing undercover snooping for me, he probably didn't want to share his tears with anyone. Least of all me. 

So I tried to draw him out. I thought maybe he'd be able to pull out of it with a distraction. But he didn't. So I pushed my food around while I listened to him crying in there by himself. It wasn't audible to Drennan. I turned on the stereo after I left Blair. He doesn't have a hell of a lot of privacy with a curtain between him and the kitchen. I figured if he broke down, he deserved a little dignity when he was done. 

She left early, convinced the evening was a disaster and we were incompatible. We were sickeningly polite at her departure. I knew I'd never see her again. That should have bothered me, because she was attractive and I liked her. But if I'm looking to feel for a woman what I feel for Blair, I'm going to get intimate with my right hand for a long time to come. See--that's what bothers me. I'm not gay. I never have been. I'm not against it or anything, it's just not my preference. I've always noticed a nice figure, long legs, a shapely ass or a nice set of boobs. Like any other normal guy. I've never evaluated other men's equipment. I figure they don't have anything I haven't got--just a different version of it. So where's the lure? 

Maybe that's what's wrong. I'm used to being _attracted_ to someone and then building feelings for them after that. I have all the right feelings for Blair, but I'm not gay. The sex thing just isn't happening. I don't foresee it happening, even if he was willing. I mean, as guys go, I like the way he looks and the way he smells, and how warm and complete I feel on the rare times I hold him in my arms. But I haven't had to fight against ravishing him on the floor or anything. But the absence of all those warm feelings when I approach an attractive woman is making it so damned hollow that I don't care if I ever lay eyes on her again, let alone whether or not I get her into bed. 

Blair wasn't crying by the time Drennan left. He wasn't asleep either. So I cleaned up the dishes and put things away and then went into his room and sat on the bed. He was playing dead, but I knew better. I laid a hand on his shoulder and told him it would get better. It does, eventually. It's like a death. When it first happens you feel wiped out, but slowly, you struggle your way back and rebuild. You just don't picture it happening when you're hurting so much. 

"It's my own fault," was his almost inaudible reply. I rubbed his shoulder a little. 

"Doesn't make it hurt any less, pal. Besides, I put you in that situation to start. I'm not blameless either." 

"I'm sorry I screwed up the whole thing." 

"It was because of you that Maya tipped us off. You didn't screw anything up, Chief." I could hear him working to control new tears. I knew I should at least let him have his pain privately, if that's what he wanted. He had clung to me when he needed me before. Maybe this time he just needed to work through it, and wanted privacy. "How's your head?" I gently tugged on one of the wavy sections of hair. 

"Hurts." 

"Want some aspirin?" 

"No." 

"Okay then." I patted his shoulder and got up, starting for the door. His voice stopped me. 

"When?" 

"When what?" 

"When does it get better?" 

"Soon, buddy. You'll see." 

"Okay. G'night, Jim." 

"See you in the morning, Chief." 

I went upstairs. I wanted nothing more than to go to him and hold him and make him feel better. I hate seeing him hurt in any way. Instead, I went upstairs. I had to start backing off a little and he obviously needed some privacy. 

I still have to laugh when I think about him nailing those guys out in the street with that fire hose. I guess brains will step in nicely for brawn in a tight situation. He accomplished what the cops couldn't--just because he was smart enough to try it. 

The car insurance guy is probably going to hassle him. Whether he wants me there or not, I'll go with him. I'm sure we can reach some reasonable agreement. 

Entry #9 

Well, I certainly know the old equipment still works. And all my concerns about not getting turned on by women can be laid to rest. Somewhat. I still don't fully understand this "thing" that just happened. But from the first time I laid eyes on Laura, I was so turned on I couldn't see straight. I wanted her then and there. Shit, I'd have done her on the pool table if I could have. 

I should have known it wasn't going to work. Cheap pick-ups in bars usually don't. But it was a decent bar, with a nice clientele. And Sandburg decided I should get out more and meet people. Is that a subtle hint? Does he feel like I'm sniffing around after him all the time? Maybe he's testing me to see if I'm het or if I'm thinking about jumping his bones. 

I guess if it's the "het test", I passed. Big time. She was as excited about me (I thought) as I was about her. We were all over each other. I never had sex that intense, and I never cut loose and used a woman wild and hard that way. She loved it. The rougher I got, the better she liked it. She kept goading me on to "make her scream". I think we did it three times during the night. 

Normally, I would say that sex alone wouldn't sustain a relationship. If I could have sex like that anytime I wanted it, I might reconsider. Of course, we'd both be dead in a couple years, tops. 

So why did I worry if Sandburg seemed to look hurt that I'd stayed out all night and that I was so turned on by this woman I couldn't see straight? Maybe mind-blowing sex just gets you in a horny frame of mind. Maybe that's why I stood there and assessed those big blue eyes, the full lips, how impossibly cute he looks when he's in one of his studious modes. Hair pulled back, glasses in place, deathly serious expression on his face. I try not to think of Blair in diminutive terms. He's short, but that doesn't make him stupid, weak, incompetent or less of a man. He doesn't deserve to be evaluated as some "cute little guy" when he's got the brains he's got, and he's able to handle some major situations as well as he does. 

But I can't help it. He _is_ a cute little guy, and I had the most overpowering urge to throw him on the bed and kiss him senseless. I chalked it up to my libido being stuck in overdrive and my mind translating everything into sexual terms. So I brushed him off, and pushed aside any thoughts of him in that way. When my hormones--pheromones--whatever--settled down, so would I. Actually, letting my animal urges drive my behavior was kind of...liberating. I just picked up the message she was giving off and went for it. Part of me wanted to stuff a sock in Sandburg's mouth before he could say something to break the spell. 

I shouldn't have been surprised that everything fell apart. The only problem is that I'm in this frenzied state and have no one to work it out on. Is that why I'm taking an inordinate interest in Sandburg bending over to dig around in the refrigerator? Yep, that's gotta be it. I guess writing this entry out long-hand here at home wasn't such a hot idea. I'm spending most of my time checking out my roommate's ass, speculating on how it would feel to get a hold of him, slide those jeans down and grab handfuls of ass, kneading and stroking. How would he look on his back with his legs apart? 

Shit, Ellison. Blair deserves a hell of a lot better than that. You leering at him and figuring out how it would feel to grope his ass and nail him to the mattress. Just because this disaster left you with a bunch of unsatisfied urges doesn't give you the right to use him--without his knowledge, even--to create a bunch of sexual fantasies in your head. 

"Hungry?" Blair asked. He was standing there innocently in the middle of the kitchen, eating an apple. He figured I was staring at him because I wanted food. //No thanks, Sandburg. I'd rather have you naked on your back. I want your ass, not your apple. Thanks anyway.// 

"No, I'm fine." 

"Still feeling a little down?" He joined me at the table. The glasses and the ponytail. So help me God, he _is_ cute when wears those glasses. 

"I'll get over it." //Dammit. He just showered and washed his hair an hour or so ago. Smells good too.// I felt really guilty by now for what I had been thinking, and I didn't realize I'd said "I'm sorry" out loud. He looked puzzled. "For not taking your opinions on this very seriously at first," I recovered. He smiled a little, seemed pleased. 

"That's okay. I know you couldn't help it." 

Then he started turning the apple around in those long fingers while he was thinking. He raised one finger up and licked apple juice off it. Does he have to be so damned sexy without even trying? I've seen a lot of women very calculatedly suck a finger, lick their lips--various little sensuous moves. And they look artificial. But Blair is genuine. If he's licking his finger, it isn't for effect. It's because he has apple juice on it. Wonder how he'd react if I grabbed his wrist and said, "here, let me help you with that". Scratch that. I know how he'd react. He'd sit there and let me do it. 

Hot water isn't a problem at the moment. Blair has all he needs. I've been taking cold showers for a week. Probably will be for a while. Whatever this pheromone thing is, it's powerful. My motor's ready to start up at the slightest little stimulus. 

Entry #10 

Talk about moving from the sublime to the ridiculous. I've been away from this writing project for a little while--which seems to have been a good idea, judging from the direction the last entry was taking. But what I was really talking about was going from spending most of my free time thinking about my sex life (or lack of same) to spending my vacation at a monastery. 

Scratch all those syrupy things I said about Sandburg. The only thing I'd like to do with his ass is kick it right now. I know he meant well, and that's the only reason I didn't leave him with the monks. If he thinks it's so damn cool to spend a vacation with no television, phones, sports or recreational activities, he should try living in the jungle for eighteen months. I certainly am more than familiar with the value of solitude and meditation--though none of it involved incense or strange primordial chants in my case. I spent a lot of time alone, prowling around the jungle like an animal, and quite frankly, unless it's coupled with fishing or hiking or some other worthwhile activity, spending my vacation away from the modern conveniences is _not_ a big treat. Having some overzealous monk wake me up at 5 AM swinging on a bell and then doing nothing all day is _not_ a vacation. If I wanted to get up at dawn and spend the day unable to do anything I wanted, I'd have stayed at home and gone to work. 

Having vented that hostility, I _am_ glad we were able to help the guys at St. Sebastian's. They're good people--I know that sounds like a statement of the obvious with monks, but what I mean is, they're very human, very kind people. They're _people_ , not strange, other-worldly beings with pained expressions on their faces like you see in the religious paintings. These are guys who left regular lives--acting, sales, administration--to devote themselves to God. I couldn't do that. I don't have what it takes. I bet any one of them could hack the army. They have enormous strength of character. But it takes another kind of strength to put yourself completely at the end of the list--God's number one and everyone and everything else seems to fill in the other slots. 

At any rate, everything ended pretty well. The monastery lost a couple of members, but that was almost inevitable under the circumstances. I'm just glad we were able to stop it before more had to die. Still, it's a real loss when one of those guys die. They're a rare breed to begin with. Of course, they feel they're going somewhere better. To a reward. That we're the ones suffering here on earth. I like to think that. It means my mother went to a better place when she died so damned young--and if that's true, and she's happy...well, it _does_ make it a little less grim. 

Simon is promising me more vacation time again soon. I worked through this one, and then a major case landed in our laps, and the chance to extend this one went out the window. 

Blair apologized left and right for screwing up my vacation. I don't know why I can't stay mad at that guy for more than thirty seconds. He looks up at me with those big eyes and that expression with just a hint of fear that I'm going to really come down on him...like I ever have. Or would. I can't keep up a healthy tongue-lashing at him, let alone really bawl him out. I tease Blair about his tendency to stretch the truth, but he's really very genuine when it comes to his emotions. They play out on his face instantly. And any time I've really snapped at him, I see a little flash of hurt that's usually sufficient to make me feel guilty as hell for about three hours afterwards. 

So I let him off the hook pretty easily, and told him next trip was my choice. He brightened up all of a sudden, and asked if I really meant he could go along. I said sure, I was planning on it. He just beamed about it, and then said he figured I'd be mad that he'd screwed up my time off and wouldn't want him along again. He also said he'd go anywhere and do anything I wanted. Well, we'll see about that... 

Entry #11 

I seriously considered scrapping this whole diary project after the last several days. So much has happened that I don't know where to start to explain it. 

Simon took Daryl to Peru for a conference. I thought it would be a great experience for the kid when he first mentioned it, and of course Blair was just exploding with all these suggestions of places they had to see while they were there. Little did any of us know what they would end up stepping into. 

Then Blair knocks the legs right out from under me. He has the chance to go to Borneo to study, under the supervision of his mentor, a guy he informs me is one of the most prominent anthropologists in the world. I've never heard of him, but then to me, Blair is the most prominent anthropologist in the world. He's the _only_ anthropologist I can _name_. 

I thought he was talking a few weeks, maybe even a month or two, since it was a long trip. He comes out of nowhere telling me that it's going to be at least a year. I could see he was excited about going. I also know he felt obligated to me. So I tried to cut the ties for him pretty fast. I pulled back my inclination to really make a sap out of myself and ask him how in the hell I was supposed to keep my act together without a guide. What I really wanted to ask him was how I was going to face living in this place alone again, eating alone, vacationing alone, riding around alone...I felt so frantic inside that I wanted to scream at him not to go. Pull him into my arms and hang on and tell him I needed him too much to be without him now. Because for Sandburg, that year's separation probably would have marked the end of our relationship. He would have gained notoriety from his involvement in that, and probably found a better dissertation subject and gone on without me. 

I didn't have time for a lot of misery and self-pity. We got the distress call about Simon right on the heels of the job discussion. 

I know I was snapping at Blair, being unnecessarily abrupt with him. But I had to move my focus away from him. I had to start detaching. And it was going to be a damn tough process. But Blair didn't go along with that. He seemed to cling to me more tenaciously than ever. The more I pried him away and pushed him back, the harder he hung on. The poor kid never jumped out of a plane before, but he did it just to stick with me. Screamed all the way down, got stuck in a tree, fell out and ended up with a lizard in his shorts, but he survived it. Then he dusted himself off and followed me. 

Blair was a big help to me, and all along, he was trying to reaffirm that we were partners. Why? It was all going to end in a matter of days anyway. 

The first night there I had a dream. It was bizarre. Images of a panther, me chasing it through the jungle...Blair helped me work through the symbolism, to see it as an animal spirit guide. I _did_ follow the panther in my next dream, and it presented me with the choice of being a sentinel and taking the leap or giving it all up. I chose to take the leap. I don't know why. I guess because deep in my heart, I knew it was the only thing that might drag Blair back to me when he was done traipsing around Borneo. Wrestling all these hyperactive senses alone wouldn't be my choice. This "gift" is a bizarre mix of agony and ecstasy. 

Sometimes I still don't understand how we managed to get Simon and Daryl out of that camp alive. It was a hellish battle, gunfire everywhere. I didn't know how many I was hitting or when they'd hit me or the truck. I was never so relieved as I was to step off that plane on American soil. Well, almost never. I still had the issue of Blair's impending departure to face. 

It was a real battle to force the words out to bring up the subject, to urge him to call back and give them an answer. I knew what it was going to be. I was totally unprepared for his response. He told me he was turning it down, and that he understood now that this whole thing went beyond a thesis--that it was "about friendship". 

If I had said anything to that, I would have spilled my guts. So I just smiled at him. I wanted to grab him and hug him and thank him for being in my life and staying there. I wanted to tell him how afraid I was of losing him. And then I thought of what that would all sound like, and how a free spirit like Blair would feel about being smothered that way. So I kept quiet. But I was never so happy in my life. 

Continued in part [two](ellisonreports1.html).


	2. Chapter 2

Due to the length of this story, it's been split into four parts for easier loading.

## The Ellison Reports

by Candy Apple

Continued from part one.

* * *

The Ellison Reports - part two  
(Transcribed from Jim's diary by Candy Apple) 

Entry #12 

I have long since learned that emergency rooms should be reserved for impending death cases. So when the dust settled from the battle with Weston, I loaded Blair in the truck and headed home. Angie and her daughter were safely tucked away in their hotel suite again, and as lousy as we both felt, the reports would wait until morning. 

I've been in a lot of fights and taken a lot of blows in my life, so it's not that novel an experience for me to sit in the corner and nurse bruises. I feel a little guilty that Blair is getting all his major pain experience from hanging out with me. He holds up pretty well--I think he's afraid I'm going to think less of him if he doesn't. The truth is, unless you're in law enforcement, see a lot of action in the military, or live in a severely abusive environment, you probably aren't used to getting slugged in the face, knocked out or otherwise assaulted. It always hurts, but it's harder to deal with and shakes you up a hell of a lot more when you're not used to it. 

It was actually sort of funny how we tended to our injuries. I was trying to put ice on Blair's head and talk to him about symptoms and check his eyes and he was constantly in motion, getting antiseptic and trying to fix up the damage on my forehead. As lousy as we both felt, we had to laugh by the time our arms got in each other's way about the third time. We finally took all our stuff to the kitchen table and sat there and did one thing at a time. 

"You did great at the house, Chief," I told him while I refreshed the ice bag for his head. 

"He knocked me out, Jim. Twice. I didn't do anything worthwhile. As usual." 

"You distracted him when you knew he'd probably kick your ass. It gave me the opening I needed to save Angie and Pam." I sat next to him at the table and carefully held the ice against the side of his head. He seemed to lean into it, wincing a little. "Head hurts a lot, huh?" 

"N-not much worse than other times." He wasn't trying to take the ice bag back from me, and I could tell he wanted a little TLC, but thought he was acting like a baby to ask for it. 

"Hurt those times too, didn't it?" I asked, smiling a little. 

"You're probably hurt worse that I am." 

"I've got a few bruises. I'll be fine. Besides, I've got a pain dial. You don't, remember?" 

"I tried mind over matter, but it's not working." 

"Let's go sit on the couch. It's a little more comfortable." I led him in there and sat down, bringing him down right next to me. "Lean on me. I'll hold the ice bag for you for a while, huh?" He seemed surprised by that offer, but he seemed to like the idea. He snuggled against me with the good side of his head on my shoulder and I held the ice on the sore side. "How's that?" 

"Ice helps. I'm sorry to be such a pain. I can do this myself--" 

"You're fine, Chief. Just stay where you are and rest." //And let me hold you. God, that feels good. I love feeling you breathe against me, knowing it makes you feel better to be close to me. That you need me. // 

I never thought it made you weak to need another person, which is good because Blair and I need each other very much. There's something intense about that. And it's a need that goes beyond "convenience". I need Blair to help me control my senses--and to give my life some meaning. He needs me to give him some of the stability he's never had, to protect him sometimes--and I think he counts on me as a safe haven. I know a lot of the danger he gets into is because he's with me, but sometimes he just has a rough day at the university or something personal goes wrong, and he seems to come to me, even if he doesn't always talk about it. I know when he's hurting and I like to make it better somehow. 

He dozed off with an arm around my middle and his head on my shoulder. I sighed and smiled to myself. //This has to be what heaven feels like.// 

Entry #13 

It's taken me four years to put what happened to Jack Pendergrass at least in perspective. I never really got over it. I figured he was dead--I respected Jack very much, and I pride myself on being a reasonably good judge of character. And while he was out trying to break the Brackley case, what was I doing? Screwing with his girlfriend. She said it was over between them, so it's not so much that I feel guilty about going to bed with her. She was single, I was single, and she was through with Jack. She would have been through with him whether I was in the picture or not. But we were probably coming about the time Jack tried to call me for back-up. So he died and I got off. _That_ I feel guilty about. 

No one ever believed in Jack as completely as I did when he, the Brackley kid, and all that money disappeared at the same time. Even when his car was hauled out of the water, everyone speculated on how he'd ditched it and made a run for the Bahamas...or some other sordid scenario. Jack was a good man, even if he had his faults--just like anybody else. Why was everyone so damned determined to see him as a dirty cop? 

Internal Affairs decided I was involved. I think sometimes they don't have much exciting stuff to investigate, so they stir something up. Oh, they find pot in somebody's locker, or they catch a male and female rookie making it on duty, or they find out that a patrolman turns his back on something for some kind of payoff. But juicy stuff like murders just doesn't come across their desks too often. This was too good not to turn into a full-blown witch hunt. If Simon hadn't bent a few rules, I'd probably be in jail by now. 

Blair and I got in and had a good look at the car. I found bullets and bullet holes that indicated that Jack had been shot. I'd have felt badly about that, but I already knew Jack was dead or he wouldn't be missing this long. It wasn't news to me. I just needed proof. There it was. 

I know I really took cheap and almost obvious advantage of the chance to get close to Blair while we looked at that car. Holding his wrist like that, standing behind him--it was almost like slow dancing. I wondered what that would be like--slow dancing with him. Hell, do you slow dance with another man? I don't know a hell of a lot about that. Do you just jump each other, thrust a few times and get it over with? Maybe I'm hopelessly hetero with feelings I just can't figure out for this one particular little guy. But I want to wine him and dine him and buy him things and slow dance with him...God, I never really wanted to do all that with Carolyn. Of course, she would have taken it as a slur on her womanhood if I'd showered her with what she would have no doubt considered "corny" presents. If I had tried to "take care of her". I still don't understand why that's wrong. I mean, if you love someone, is it so bad to want to take care of them? 

Blair takes care of me all the time. Aside from the whole mess with my senses, he's always there for me, he cooks for me (I don't have a food fetish, though I know I've mentioned his cooking more than once--but he's good at it), he fusses over me if I'm sick or hurt. I like to take care of him. I like to make sure he's got what he needs, and I like to treat him to meals when we go out--I know he doesn't have much spending money. In short, I want to take care of Blair. Protect him and do things for him and buy things for him and make him happy. I know he doesn't need me to do it, anymore than Carolyn did--he's capable, resourceful--and he'll have a damn fine set of credentials when he finishes up his dissertation. It's not a matter of thinking less of the person you want to take care of. It's a matter of love. Carolyn never understood that, but I think Blair would. I think he already does. 

I wonder how Blair would react to being spoiled the way I want to spoil him. I wonder if he's liberal enough to consider being with a man. And if he did consider it, would he give me the second look? 

I guess I got off the Jack track there pretty far. Needless to say, all ended well enough. Emily's married and has a beautiful little boy. Jack's finally been brought home and laid to rest with all the proper ceremony--which he would have hated anyway. I've been cleared of all suspicion of any misconduct. 

Sheila tried calling me several times after the case ended. I don't know if she wanted to apologize, or what her thing was, but I didn't care. I know I'm wasting my time thinking about Blair in any other terms than friendship, but it still makes it hard to go out and start something up with a woman. Not that I suddenly don't get turned on by women. Sometimes I think what I need is a good roll in the sack to get my perspective back. At the risk of sounding stodgy, I don't see sex as such a casual option anymore. Picking the wrong partner doesn't just give you an itchy crotch--it can kill you. I know about safe sex. I practice it--that is when there's anyone to practice on. I guess I'm old-fashioned. I want to meet someone special, make a commitment, toss the condoms and be monogamous until I die. 

I already met someone special, but sometimes the whole sex thing just refuses to come into focus in my mind. I've had some lusty thoughts about Blair. He's not feminine in any way--don't get me wrong. He's hairier than I am, has a substantial body even if he is short, a very masculine voice and a very noticeable beard when he doesn't shave. So when I say that he's attractive in a non-gender-specific sort of way, I'm not implying he's effeminate or androgynous. He's just beautiful. And a lot of that beauty emanates from his soul. Blair is one of the gentlest, kindest, sweetest people I know. He has the longest fuse of anyone I've ever known. He's the only person who's ever given me 100% of his attention every time I talk to him. He _hangs_ on every word. I watch him with others, and he makes them feel like they're the most important people in the world to him when he's listening. God, that impresses me. 

Blair treated me to dinner after the funeral. Guess he thought I needed cheering up. I don't think I'll ever forget the circumstances of Jack's death, or totally forgive myself for it, but I didn't mean for it to happen, and I guess the fact I'm not technically gifted and fucked up the answering machine doesn't make me deficient as a human being. It's one of those tragic, unfair things we just have to live with. 

Entry #14 

When I decided not to attend my class reunion, it was because I spent my senior year in military school and didn't feel like I belonged at a reunion. I sort of regretted that and thought about going to the next one, but that wasn't a happy time in my life, and I don't care about revisiting it. That's another story. I don't feel like regressing back into my childhood tonight. 

What made me think of class reunions? Well, seeing what a disaster Simon's was, I guess they aren't always all they're cracked up to be. Fortunately, most of them aren't centered around psychotic sheriffs and corrupt manufacturers who destroy the environment. I have to admit, there were a few moments when I really didn't think we'd all get out of it alive. The fact we did was a real team effort. Simon wasn't just lying there waiting to be rescued--he fought like the tough SOB he really is. I did everything I could, having the advantage of being the only uninjured cop who wasn't working for the psycho, and Blair, as usual, did his part--listening in on some crucial conversation between the sheriff and the crook I mentioned before. 

I'm sorry we got cheated out of our camping trip. Not that the importance of that doesn't pale in comparison to the importance of saving Simon's life. It's just that I was really looking forward to spending a little time with Blair, just sitting out by the campfire, talking or just being there together. We went on one camping trip since he's lived with me, and it was a disaster from all logical perspectives. It rained, and then the rain turned to a major storm, and we ended up taking cover in the truck because two wet guys in tents with metal poles sleeping under the trees during an electrical storm just doesn't seem like a smart thing to do. 

We drove home the next morning, though I didn't really mind spending a night locked up in close quarters with Blair, who hates the cold, and hence, seeks body heat in his sleep. He seemed a little embarrassed that he was cuddled up against me in the morning, but I didn't mind at all. Sleeping all night sitting in my truck was another story. I minded that a great deal. 

Anyway, I think maybe we better shelve camping for a while. If we make it to our destination, it seems to be a disaster. If we don't, it's because a catastrophe gets in the way. 

I had to get on Sandburg's back for messing up the directions. It isn't too often I can find something he isn't good at, so when I do, I can resist teasing him about it. I made a point of mentioning his map-reading skills in the bullpen yesterday, joking about where we were headed and where we ended up. Blair took it all in good spirits, but he was a little too quiet on the way home. So I asked. I knew something was eating him. 

"Spill it, Chief." 

"What?" He looked at me, pulling his focus from whatever mundane scenery had his attention through the passenger window. 

"You haven't said two words since we left the station. What's wrong?" 

"I'm just tired." 

"Tired?" 

"Yeah, tired--you know, slightly sleep deficient? I was up until three last night trying to get a paper done. I'm tired. Is that a crime?" //Whoa, he's really pissed about something// I thought. 

I didn't say anything for a while, and then I thought about all the teasing he'd taken about getting us 40 miles off-course on the trip. It had gotten a little out of hand, as anything does with that group. 

"Look, I'm sorry I brought up the map thing earlier. I was just kidding." 

"I'm not mad about that." 

"Yes, you are." I was getting irked myself now, because I knew that's why he was mad, and he just wouldn't admit it. 

"I guess I just wondered why it was necessary for the whole Major Crimes division to know that map-reading isn't my specialty. I said I was sorry the other day when we got stuck." 

"We all screw up sometimes, Chief. I was just teasing you a little." 

"Those guys don't take me very seriously anyway, Jim. You just set me back about six months. Thanks a lot." 

"Set you back how?" I was really interested in how having one normal human flaw could do all this damage. Then I figured out I was getting a rare look at something: Blair's insecurity. He's a pretty confident person, and rightfully so. He doesn't let his insecurities show too easily, least of all in front of the guys at the station. _I_ see them sometimes, because _I'm_ supposed to be his friend--on his side. But I'm not supposed to hold him up for ridicule in front of the very people he's the most insecure with. I'm not always lightning fast with all this psychobabble, but I get there eventually. 

"You made me look stupid, Jim. The only thing I can use to gain their respect is my ability, my brains. When you take that away from me and make me look dumb, on top of being--" //he was starting to enumerate on his fingers. I was in deep shit. He was pissed off. When he counts off on his fingers and backs himself up with several reason he's pissed, like he's formed a mental _dissertation_ on the subject, I know he's about ready to kill me.// "--on top of being too young, having too much hair, not being a cop, and being shorter than everyone else in the department with the possible exception of the bagel girl, you basically take away what little usefulness they see me having. They don't know about all this sentinel stuff, Jim. They know I 'ride along' with you. Like some stupid kid who wants to be a cop when he grows up. I'm trying real hard here to establish some kind of identity. I've had to do it in every situation in my life--whether it was with a tribe in Zimbabwe or some flaky new school Naomi enrolled me in because we had just moved for the umpteenth time and changed districts." Blair sunk back in his seat, seemingly winded. I was duly chastised. And I really did feel sorry for having made him the standing joke for most of the afternoon. "I really thought I was making some headway there. And they thought I had your respect, and that was a big part of it." 

"I'm sorry. I didn't know it was such a big deal." I knew it wasn't much to say in response to that little speech, but an apology was all I could offer. 

"I thought we were friends." I thought I detected a little tremor in his voice, but I dismissed that as impossible. He couldn't be _that_ hurt because I teased him. 

"We are. Now you _are_ overreacting, Sandburg." I didn't like the fact he was still looking out the window, facing away from me again, and it sounded like his throat was working overtime to keep his voice from breaking. 

"Just drop it, okay?" he asked a little too quietly. 

"Look, I didn't mean to hurt your feelings, Chief. I was just teasing you--hell, in case you haven't noticed, teasing each other is kind of an unofficial sport in the bullpen." 

"Yeah? Well, Jim, I'm not a member of the team, remember? I'm your stupid ride-along flunkie. It's no big deal to get teased by a bunch of people who respect you--where you've proven yourself to them. What's the use? If you don't know what I mean, let's just let it go. It's no big deal." 

"If you feel this badly about it, it's a big deal." I pulled the truck off the street, up to the curb. We were still a ways from the loft. "Blair, I'm sorry." My tone was a hell of a lot softer than it had been when I granted him that half-assed apology before. He still didn't look at me. And I had never heard him make a reference to his size before, or indicate that he gave the difference in our sizes any real thought. Did I make him feel smaller by what I had done? God, I really didn't mean to do anything besides tease him. But it made sense that he would feel ganged up on if I was the ringleader making fun of him in a room full of guys who were _my_ friends. I got a sick feeling in my stomach, thinking that I really hadn't learned anything from Toby. 

Toby was a kid I knew in grade school. Hell, I'm still denying him--Toby was my _friend_. His family moved in one summer, and I spent most of it playing with Toby. We were eleven years old, into everything... Toby was a real bookworm when he wasn't with me. He knew a little bit about everything (kind of like another friend of mine), but he was about as uncoordinated as it was humanly possible to be. He wore coke bottle glasses and generally tripped over feet that were too big for the rest of him when he tried to play sports or just get going on a good run. He was a nerdy little klutz, in other words. 

Toby counted on me when we started sixth grade in the Fall. I endured sitting next to him on the bus--I always ran with the popular kids in school. I was just one of the lucky ones that "fit in". I say "endured" because it didn't take my school friends long to start picking on Toby. I could see it would be him or them, and that if I chose friendship over being one of the gang, I would be an outcast too. 

I was eleven, and I didn't have the backbone to choose friendship. So by the next day, Toby rode the bus in a seat by himself and I was back with my regular friends, and they were snatching his stuff and playing keepaway with it and I just let it happen. I remember the pain in his eyes when he looked to me for help, and I just let them keep it up. But I felt a certain relief in "belonging". I had handed Toby over as the sacrifice so I could be part of the gang. And the look in his eyes wasn't unlike the look I had gotten from Blair once or twice at work. And as much as I hate to admit it, I had that same little feeling of relief when, as they usually do, the guys got going really good on Sandburg, that I was one of them and not the one getting teased. 

Toby transferred to St. Mary's in October. It was a small, Catholic school that had an outstanding reputation for academics. I never saw Toby again--well, I _saw_ him, but we never talked again, even though we lived a block away from each other. 

And now that I'm a man, I turn around and do the same thing to Sandburg--when it's "summer vacation" and it's just us, he's my best friend--hell, I've even had thoughts about him I've never had about another man--but as soon as I "got on the bus" so to speak, I made fun of him along with everybody else. Shit, I _started_ it. I made a fool out of him in an arena where his confidence is shaky to begin with. I withdrew the thing he held onto the tightest--my friendship. I didn't see it that way at the time, but it suddenly became crystal clear why Blair was sitting there, trying not to cry because I'd hurt him, betrayed his friendship, used one weakness that had popped up in a private moment to make him look stupid. Hell, he might have missed the turn on the map because he wears glasses and it's all tiny print. 

I realized very poignantly why Toby wouldn't be friends after school and in the summer and then let me run with the pack who made fun of him at school. I lost that friendship, and I was going to be damned if I lost this one. 

There was a little sniffle from the passenger seat. I wondered how many times Blair had been down this road before, and how many times he had been "Toby" on a bus full of "Jims". 

"It was a crummy thing for me to do and it won't happen again, buddy." I reached over and squeezed the back of his neck gently. "Hey, come on, Chief, at least look at me." 

"I feel dumb." His voice was shaky and he wouldn't turn around. 

"No, I do." I withdrew my hand and sighed loudly. "I should know better. I acted like a jerk. I don't know what got into me. I really am sorry, Blair. I mean that." 

"I'm overreacting. I don't know why. I'm sorry." I could see he was brushing at his eyes, but he still wouldn't look at me. I tossed a handkerchief over his shoulder, and he laughed out loud. "Guess turning your back on a sentinel is kind of pointless." 

"Yeah, pretty pointless." I was laughing a little now too. 

"I really overreacted, Jim. I'm sorry. I just...it was like being the school nerd all over again." 

That comment hit home. 

"Let's get some take-outs and go home, huh?" 

"Okay." Blair finally turned around and smiled. 

We picked up Chinese food and took it back to the loft. As soon as we were inside, Blair got right down to business opening up the containers and setting the table. It stabbed me in the heart how much I really loved him. So I walked up to him, turned him around and hugged the hell out of him. He was startled at first, but then he responded, hugging back. 

"Still friends?" I asked, releasing him. He gave me one of those blinding miles. 

"Always." 

Wherever you are, Toby--thanks. And I'm sorry it took me 25 years to learn anything from you. 

Entry #15 

I know that after all these years as a cop, it shouldn't surprise me the lengths that people will go to just to make a point. Three killed in one gang, then four killed in retaliation, then another one poisoned, another one buried on the beach...I've seen a lot of ugly things in my life. That doesn't mean I have to like it. 

Angela Kumoro is a tough lady. To say she's giving her all for her job is an understatement. I still wonder when I'm going to hear that somebody made her, and she's dead. I really like strong women. I think that's what got me into the relationship with Carolyn. Angie Ferris was another one--although I've been a little preoccupied with Blair lately to pay much attention to what the women in my life were doing. I don't know why it always comes back to him. Why _I_ always come back to him. Shit, it's not like he's waiting home at the loft for me to come in and ravish him. I'd just rather listen to him pecking away on his computer or mumbling to himself while he studies or expounding on all the horrible things football says about society--right before he upturns the popcorn bowl cheering with me at a good play... In short, I guess I'd rather be with Blair than with anyone else. 

So what would I do if Angela suddenly resurfaced, was out of the undercover operation, and wanted me to follow up on that kiss we had? Probably go out with her, maybe I'd sleep with her. I don't know. There's one part of me that really admires how she's willing to give herself so fully for her cover, and another part that would make me feel like there wasn't much...meaningful in making love when you could do it as part of your job. If I had to save my life or Blair's, I could probably have sex with Barney the dinosaur--once. But to keep up a cover, and a fake relationship to go with it...man, I admit I don't think I could do that. Don't think I'd want to. 

I've been avoiding the issue of Mike Hurley. I don't know what to say about him. It was a damn stinking tragedy that a good man like Mike had to get so fucked up that he started doing business with the same type of slime that destroyed his niece. I know he thought he was avenging her somehow, but he was only feeding the problem--nurturing it and making it grow. A gang by any other name is still a gang, and just because you get one set of low-lifes to work for you today doesn't mean they won't slit your throat tomorrow. 

I'm glad we're sending the money to his sister. That woman has suffered a great deal, and the loss of her brother will no doubt be just one more in a string of tragedies. 

Blair really saved the day grabbing that detonator. I was proud of him. He surprises me all the time. I have _no_ doubt that Blair would give his life to save someone else--I saw a movie once where this woman ran out in front of an eighteen-wheeler and pushed this toddler out of the way, and ended up getting killed in his place. The thought makes me shudder, but that would be Blair. I know what he did for me with that garbage truck. I mean, it was kind of touch and go if he'd end up dead or seriously injured trying to save me--a guy who had slammed him against a wall and told him off a few minutes earlier--but he didn't think about that. He just ran out there and saved my life. Wow. 

Blair attended Mike's funeral with me and the rest of the cops. A few didn't come, feeling Mike sold out and didn't deserve a cop's burial. May they never face a tragedy in their lives that fucks up their perspective. Those were Blair's words, actually, when I made a comment about low turnout. And when I was having trouble holding up during the funeral--I did, but it was touch and go for a while--anyway, I felt this warm hand slip into mine and just hold on. I squeezed back. What would I do without him, I wonder? 

Entry #16 

I had the most amazing experience last night. I'm still trying to sort it all out. 

It all started with Blair announcing he had tickets to "Cats", and would I go see it with him. I figured he was just stuck with pricey tickets and no date, but he says he bought them for us. I didn't really buy that at first--I figured he was just trying to make me feel like I wasn't a stand-in for his missing date. As the evening progressed, I really believed he'd planned it that way. 

We had a great dinner at DaVinci's. I've only eaten there a couple of times, but it's fabulous. The lasagna is enough to bring tears to your eyes. I'd say it was the kind of cooking mother used to do, but then, my brief memories of my mother have nothing to do with cooking. She was beautiful, flamboyant, and figured that's why the household staff was there--to do the mundane things like cooking. 

How did I get off on that topic again? Maybe it's because there are times when I wish she were still here. I know I'd be able to talk to her about all the stuff I have to sit here and laboriously type into a computer. How immature is it to be 36 and still miss your mother? 

Anyway, the food was great, the wine was great--and we had a great time. We talked about a lot of things--Blair's a pretty interesting date, actually. Most of the women I've been out with are either weighing each thing they say to make the right impression, or they're asking me a bunch of questions about my work and then eventually their eyes sort of glaze over if I take them up on it and answer them. Those snappy blue eyes of Blair's are always animated, and always riveted on me when I talk. He makes me feel like everything I say is vitally important--as if he's hanging on every word. He's been all over the world. It's hard to imagine my little partner, the shaggy-haired, backpack-toting grad student, has been to more places on the map than I have, and has studied the indigenous peoples in every one of them. He's out-run headhunters, studied headhunters (now there's one research project I _definitely_ would pass up), lived in mud-floor huts (I did too, in the jungle, but it sure as hell wasn't by choice. A Holiday Inn would have been fine.), lived off whatever natural foods were there, mingled with the natives, picked up fragments of God knows how many languages. The guy's just fascinating. 

I'm digressing. We had dinner and then headed over to the theatre. The play was okay. Not really my cup of tea, but some of the music was good, and Blair's company was great. It was nice to share a nice evening out together, no matter what we were doing. 

We ran into Councilman Hilliard at intermission, and I introduced him to Blair, who, of course, was almost instantly able to strike up a conversation with the guy on his stand on an adult cinema going into a business district near the university. Having initially looked Blair up and down like he was a science experiment on feet, the old geezer actually got interested in talking to him (most people are once he gets them loosened up) and was disappointed when we cut things short to go back for the rest of the play. 

After the play, I decided it was time to introduce Blair to one of my favorite after dinner drinks. We went back to DaVinci's, and I ordered us a bottle of Bailey's Irish Creme. Add that to the wine we'd had earlier, and by the time we got most of the way through it, they threw us out. I think they wanted to close, but I also think the rather stiff-looking maitre'd didn't want to have to throw us out if we got any drunker. Or is it "more drunk"? Is "drunker" a real word? 

So we started walking--it was a beautiful night--clear, cool, stars in the sky. I had been fighting hearing the song "Memory" from the play over and over in my head. I always liked that song when I heard it on the radio, so I knew the words pretty well. I'd have traded my pension for a camera to catch the look on Sandburg's face when I started singing it. I actually did it more to freak him out than anything else. He thinks because I don't embrace his thundering tribal chants or the latest alternative band that I don't like music. I do. I always have. 

So here I am, staggering half shit-faced down the street, singing "Memory" at the top of my lungs, and before long, Sandburg's right in it with me, singing along and throwing us both into laughter when he swung around on a street light post still singing. Gene Kelly was a bit more graceful than a drunken Blair, but nobody could have been funnier doing it. 

I don't know how we ended up back at DaVinci's. I think when Blair spun around the lamp post, he started walking in the wrong direction, and useless sot that I was at the moment, I followed him. Looking back, I'm surprised we weren't mugged. Anyhow, we admitted defeat and hailed a cab with the same campy flourish we'd been using to sing moments earlier. 

I think it was probably the best evening of my life. I wish it weren't so damned complicated to just make a move on someone you care about. The whole hang up about heteros and homos irritates me. All that having been said, I don't know as I'm willing to be an outsider at work--hell, in society. 

So I thanked Blair for a great evening and went upstairs to bed. I resisted the urge to take a hold of his face and plant a big one right on his mouth and see if one thing would lead to another, just like it would with a female date. 

And then I'd always wonder if he'd come across because he felt obligated because he lived with me, or because he was drunk or because he was liberal enough to experiment. 

For a hundred reasons, it wasn't the right time. I wonder if it ever will be? 

Wendy Hawthorne is relocating to Cascade for a job here. I'm going to "show her around" sometime. Why doesn't that excite me? She's pretty, enthused--hell, probably willing if the circumstances were right. But all I keep thinking when I go out on dates these days is that if I get home early enough, I can have a late snack with Blair and visit a while. I miss him if we don't see much of each other during the day and then I have to go out at night... I look forward to talking about my day with Blair. He usually shares at least part of it. But when he doesn't, he listens to me and genuinely cares what kind of day I had. 

Going back to Wendy herself, Blair notwithstanding, I don't know how I really feel about her as a person. I mean, she's pretty, she's sharp, talented--all those good things. And I also realize that just because someone makes a mistake when they're young and anxious doesn't make them a bad person for the rest of their lives. God knows I've made some whoppers. It's funny though, in the times I've dropped one on Blair, waited for him to react with disgust, he never does. When I got loosened up on the booze and we were talking...I know I let some things slip out. He'd just get that real intense, thoughtful look, listen to every detail...I could almost see him processing it. I expected to hear that ugly little grinding noise the computer makes when it's processing something. Then he'd ask a few questions, and somehow, he completely understood why I did what I did, where I was at the time, and didn't think any less of me for it. And he never brings it up again. I know Blair would take my confidences to his grave. 

Did it again. Talking about Wendy turned into a Blair dissertation. What I initially wanted to say was that, even though she helped with the case, and even though I don't hold against her the sins of the past, so to speak, I still saw her willingness to jeopardize a police operation more than once to get a story. I don't know if we'll ever click. I think I'll spend all my time wondering what I dare say to her, and she'll spend all her time sifting what I'm involved with to see if there's a story in it. She's a career reporter like I'm a career cop--it's in the blood, and you can't help it. You think and act like a cop--or like a reporter. 

Wonder if Blair would want to go out Friday night? Probably not. He usually meets friends from the U on the weekend nights. 

Entry #17 

Sometimes I wonder if I'm nuts. 

When I heard the shots, and made it up to that hotel room, and saw Blair lying on the floor...my heart just about stopped. 

In that moment, all logic about vests and police procedure and the bad guy getting away...it all vanished. All I saw was Blair lying there on the floor. 

Armor-piercing bullets...hollowpoints--God, what if that nut had used those? There are bullets that can rip through a vest like it's wet toilet paper. And I put the most precious thing in my life in the middle of an operation where he'd essentially be like a duck in a shooting gallery. 

Again, I wonder if I'm nuts. 

The vest stopped the bullets. He was bruised up and winded and shaken up, but the vest protected him. His ribs didn't even seem cracked, certainly not broken. 

I wanted to hold him so badly, apologize for risking his life, tell him how much I loved him and that my heart damn near stopped when I saw him lying there...and that my life would have stopped if I had pulled open that shirt and found the vest hadn't worked... 

Sometimes I wish I'd quit writing in this fucking diary months ago. I needed to vent some of the stuff going on in my head with the whole sentinel thing at first, and then, I found it was kind of cathartic to blurt everything out somewhere where it didn't matter. Some days I hate this thing for dragging out of me feelings and thoughts I don't want to acknowledge, let alone write about. Tonight, sitting here by myself in the bullpen, at 12:28 a.m., it feels real good to have a sounding board, even if it is a mute computer. Well, not mute if you turn up the speakers and pop in a Santana CD...but that's another subject altogether. 

Thinking back over this case, and the whole mess with Amber, I couldn't have been more obviously territorial with Blair. What in the hell's the matter with me anyway? I know one big thing that's the matter--I've already acknowledged that I'm hung up on the guy. But I should know better than to make such an idiot out of myself trying to keep him away from women. He's 28 years old, single, perfectly heterosexual--what do I expect him to do when I take him into a strip club? Check out the wine list? 

As much as I hate having his lust for women tossed in my face when I'm wandering around like a pathetic schoolgirl carrying a torch, I had to laugh at his innocence. Yeah, I said "innocence". I don't mean that in the sense that he's an unspoiled virgin or anything. I just mean, for all his bragging and overconfident attitude, the guy just about dropped his jaw to the floor at the sight of gyrating naked women. Quite frankly, his reaction was cute. I got a kick out of it. Until I thought about what it meant. When he practically drools like a dog in heat at the sight of all this female action, why in hell would he see _anything_ in me? I'm not female, that's for damn sure. And I don't bump and grind for anybody. Not even Sandburg. 

What am I saying?! Like he'd want to see something like that. Hell, _I_ don't want to see that. Me traipsing around in a police hat, a gun belt and an attitude. Ugh. I need a beer. Maybe a sixpack. And the Santana CD. A woman would be good, too, but unless I want to take a cruise by the waterfront, I doubt I could find much decent action at this hour. 

Entry #18 

I wish I had the guts to cut Blair loose and make him hit the road. I keep getting this sinking feeling that something terrible is going to happen to him one of these days. 

And of course, the fact that I've never seen one human being generate so much...stuff is a little annoying at times. The loft looked like a landfill before I started piling up his stuff. I mean, I've left his crap sitting there in piles for weeks--hell, months, in some cases--not wanting to mess up anything he's working on. That day when I was trying to tidy up a little (which despite Blair's insistence that I'm a compulsive, anal-retentive neat-freak, I hate housework and I always will), I snapped. I hate living in a mess. I want things in their places. Maybe it's my upbringing or the military or...I don't know. But I've always lived with _order_. Blair doesn't grasp that concept. 

And what never ceases to blow my mind is that he always finds what he's looking for. He may risk great bodily injury digging for it, but he finds it. Nonetheless, I can't handle the Sandburg filing system in my living room. So I started tossing his stuff in boxes. When he came in, I think he thought I was getting ready to throw him out. I had handfuls of his stuff that I was tossing into boxes. I guess I didn't have to pile it all helter-skelter like that. I know he's been rooting through the mess trying to sort it out ever since. But it isn't like he'd do anything with the stuff if I told him to. 

Was I mad at his stuff or pissed off because he'd stayed out all night the night before? Of course later I found out he was sitting in another grad student's apartment with a study group helping a friend organize his research sources--or something like that. Not that I have a right to be mad if he was attending a group orgy. But I still was. 

So I had his food organized and his stuff in cartons--yeah, I really told him off. Blair took it the way he usually does--in his stride, with a few grumblings and comments on what all of it said about my personality. But he never got really shitty about it. 

All things being equal, I guess I figure if he's going to live with me, which I hope he will, at least for a while yet, we have to be able to stand each other. It's not much different than marriage. After you've been together a while, the little things start to gnaw at your vitals. Blair's messiness gnaws at mine. 

I've gotta say though, when I knew he was on that oil rig and the bomb was due to go off, and I knew he was determined to save the others on board by defusing it instead of getting the hell out of there, whether or not he had a stack of notes on the TV seemed a bit unimportant. I was never so relieved in my life as I was to see him bouncing along down the ramp and off that rig in one piece. 

But this is just one more example of why it's selfish as hell of me to keep him with me. I know he can't really publish this dissertation, or my life is over. As much as I care about and respect Blair, I can't do that. I won't do that. I won't be a circus freak, and I won't spend my life dodging the CIA, FBI, and any other organization that might find out what I can do. 

Add to that the number of times he's been hurt or nearly killed hanging around with me, and you can see why I feel guilty. I couldn't stand it if something happened to him because of me. But I've come to depend on him more and more as a partner. Aside from anything I feel for Blair emotionally, he's the best partner I've ever worked with. He's sharp, he's inventive, and best of all, his number one concern is backing me up in any way he can. You can't ask for more than that. Jack Pendergrass was a good man, and a fine partner. I have my doubts that Jack would have died for me. It frightens me to realize that I don't question that Blair would in a heartbeat if the situation called for it. I know he has that level of loyalty and devotion to me. So why don't I think he'd love me in any other way? 

I did all but throw him on the floor and let him have it coming out of the shower. At first, I didn't think much of it--I'm not really all that shy about sharing showering and dressing facilities. I've done that for years in the military, then in the academy--even now at the gym. I certainly don't feel inhibited or odd about sharing facilities like those with Blair. He lives with me, for God's sake--why would I worry about propriety with him? But when I heard his heart speed up, felt the rise in his body heat when I came out of the shower, I almost pounced. Right then, right there. It was a purely animal thing--I could sense his physical signals. 

But then I remembered how he'd reacted at the strip club to seeing naked women (which I'm sure he's seen before, only under different circumstances). Maybe he has a nudity hang-up. I don't think I've ever seen Blair naked. In a towel, a robe, or maybe shirtless, but he's never streaked around the loft at all. I mean, hell, if it was more convenient for some reason, I wouldn't worry about it. So while I was analyzing whether or not Blair was lusting after me or just uneasy because he has a nudity-phobia (nudaphobia, maybe?), Maggie shows up with her gun. Fortunately, I'd had time to consider other reasons for Blair's current state of heightened pulse and body heat, so I wasn't embarrassed with a raging hard-on. 

Blair also helped me overcome my fear of large bodies of open water (oceanaphobia? I know there's a term out there somewhere. Blair'll know what it is). I've never been fond of expanses of ocean with no visible land. I still don't like it, but I can cope with it now. But then Blair's the master of coping with phobias. Poor guy's afraid of heights, and to follow me, he's ended up skydiving out of an airplane in the jungle, landing in a tree and getting a lizard in his pants. Maybe it _is_ love after all. 

So now Blair keeps his things in his room, stacked almost to the ceiling, rarely sticks his nose out anymore when he's working. How can he when I've essentially banished him and his stuff from the living room? I miss having him sitting there on the other couch under a set of headphones furiously taking notes while I watch TV, or poring over essay exams, or examining some new trinket...but it's too hard for him to pack things up and move them all back out of the living room every time. 

So it's neater, but a hell of a lot lonelier. Maybe Carolyn was right. Maybe I am a cold bastard. I've got a tidy living room and I sit alone in it. Now how do I go back on the house rules without looking like an idiot? 

Entry #19 

Meeting Blair's mother was a mixed experience. Naomi is attractive, colorful, thoroughly unique, intelligent--she couldn't have been a loser and produced a kid like Blair. She also managed to switch gears from flowerchild to undercover cop pretty easily. I admired her flexibility, and her courage. She also showed me a lot of childhood photos of Blair, which I got a major kick out of seeing. He was a cute kid, then a scrawny little nerd with big glasses, and then a cute grown up nerd with little glasses. He's always had his own special style... But this is about Naomi, not Blair. 

When he first told me that he didn't know who his father was, my first response was that that was "too bad". I could see the fleeting embarrassment pass over his features right before he rattled off a very well-rehearsed lie about how wonderful it was to have a different stepfather every few days. 

I have seen some of the horrible things that kids can go through at the hands of unscrupulous adults. I have no vendetta against single mothers. I think they're remarkable. I couldn't do what they do--working and supporting themselves and their kids, still finding some time to spend with those kids--they're superhumans, in my book. But being a single mother who dates, or has the occasional serious relationship, and being a single mother with a revolving door on your bedroom is another story. I couldn't help but look at Blair, standing there, trying to make it sound wonderful, knowing he was lying... and wonder how many of those men hit him, abused him some way, or God forbid, molested him. Did Naomi know for sure? Did she watch him for the signs of that kind of thing? What kind of example did that set for him when it comes to relationships? You have a little fun and then cut and run? Or you watch out not to get too attached, because if you do, you'll just get hurt when they leave? 

Children are so damned helpless. And when you're a parent, it's up to you to screen the people who get close to them. But how do you do that when you barely know those people yourself? If you can have a child without any idea of who his father is, you can't know the men you're sleeping with very well--because there are obviously too damned many drifting in and out of your life to know any of them well. 

So why in hell did she have to dress the kid down in Simon's office, telling him he didn't have what it took to be a cop? Why get on his case now? Why start protecting him when he's pushing 30 and is trying to make a life of his own? 

I wanted to force Simon's hand. It was a rare opportunity to get him to talk about how he really felt about Blair. I could have jumped in, but Blair would have figured it was just me trying to back up a friend--or keep my guide--and while he'd probably have appreciated it, he wouldn't have taken it as seriously as he did when Simon backed him up. 

I was glad Blair and Naomi resolved things. I knew the kid would be miserable until they did. 

This case was a real bastard. I never felt such cold, wretched fear as I did when that man fell on the ground clutching at his chest. Damn it, I pulled him out of that car--if he had died, it would have been my fault. Yeah, _my_ fault. We were undercover, sure--but fat lot of consolation that would be to his family. I still imagine he'll sue the department. He had a heart attack, has been laid up for weeks--the guy's a CEO of one of the biggest banks in Cascade. This could be trouble. Honestly, I can't say I'd blame him. 

And my truck's dead. Blair and I have been traipsing around car lots, and we're going out tonight to test drive a Ford Expedition. I'll probably go with it if it handles well. It'll work out well when we go camping or kayaking, and it's a good vehicle to have for the kind of winters we get here. 

It kept nagging at the back of my mind that Blair really wasn't happy with how things had gone in his childhood. I didn't ever want him to think I was looking down on him or Naomi, because nothing could have been further from the truth. Well, I admit that while I like Naomi as a person, I have a real problem with her carelessness during Blair's childhood. Maybe that means I'm getting neurotic about him now--trying to go back and avenge anything bad that happened to him before I even knew him. 

But after we test drove a couple of four-wheel drives that I _didn't_ like, we stopped for a burger, and I tried to bring up the subject of Blair's paternity. He was munching away, and I brought up some inane chatter about Naomi and got him to talk about her last environmental cause, which was a nice segue into brining up the father thing, or so I thought. 

"She actually knew Timothy Leary, huh?" 

"Yeah, I guess they were pretty serious for a while." 

"You really think maybe he's the one?" I asked, trying to act casual. 

"It would be sort of cool." 

"Are you ever curious about it?" 

"Who my father is? Well, yeah, man, who wouldn't be?" 

"Does it bother you--not knowing?" 

"Does it bother you?" 

"I know who my old man is." 

"No, I mean that I don't." 

"Why should it?" Another bite of the burger, slurp on the pop. I don't do casual well when I'm faking it. 

"You're the one asking all the questions." Blair returned to eating, but he seemed upset. That wasn't my goal. I watched the rain pound on the windshield of the ugly unmarked police sedan I was using. This wasn't going well. 

"I thought maybe you'd like to talk about it." Honesty. When in doubt, try it. In situations like this one, it usually blows up in your face and pisses someone off, but it's worth a shot. 

"There isn't much to talk about. I mean, sure, sometimes I'm curious. Who wouldn't be? Look, I know it sounds funny to say she doesn't know, and I don't want you to think that she's some kind of--well, that she's not a good person or something--" 

"I never thought that." I hesitated, then went for it. He was either going to explode or open up. "I just think that if I had a child, they'd be too precious a commodity to me to risk exposing them to a succession of people I didn't know. I think Naomi loves you a lot, and maybe it's just the cynical cop in me. I guess I've seen the downside so many times--when the wrong stepfather enters the picture." I waited without breathing. Blair didn't look up from his hamburger, but he wasn't exactly eating either. Just sort of staring at it, picking at a pickle. 

"Yeah, well, not everything goes down that way." 

"I'm sure it doesn't," I hastened to respond. At least he wasn't screaming and cursing me out yet. 

"Not all of them were great, but hey, you can't win 'em all. Everybody makes mistakes. If they didn't, I wouldn't be here," he tried to make the last comment with a laugh, but it hit me like a ton of bricks right in the chest and I closed my eyes at the impact. 

"You're not anybody's damn mistake, Chief." 

"I was my mom's and...whoever's. I sure as hell wasn't planned." He took a long draw on his soft drink and slumped back in the seat. 

"Winning the lottery isn't planned either--that doesn't mean it isn't something wonderful." He smiled at me a little for that, but then snorted a little laugh. 

"Well, I think the lottery would have been a little easier for her to manage." 

"Yeah, but then she wouldn't have shared the payoff with me." 

"Thanks, Jim. That's a really nice thing to say, man." He didn't look up at me, but his voice was very quiet, and he was smiling a little. 

"So, you're still sold on the Geo Tracker?" I prodded, and he laughed. 

Entry #20 

I am very happy they are deporting Maya Carasco. And this one isn't driven by jealousy, either, although I'll admit I'd rather have Blair looking at me in that sappy manner he uses around her. But she's a user, and she has this knack of putting Blair through a meat grinder every time they run into each other. I get the impression she's a spoiled little princess that would have had him dancing to her whims for the rest of his life if he'd had the ill fortune to get a ring on her finger. She left him shattered, and then came back long enough to use him again. 

Before she popped up again, I really thought maybe something was clicking between Blair and me. I took him to a cop's retirement party that night. I was trying to show him that if we were together, he wouldn't be my dirty secret. That we could go out together right in a bunch of my friends and coworkers. He had a good time, and he mingled with the natives as skillfully as he always does. 

I had the DJ play a song for him, but he doesn't know I requested it. I think he knew it had some meaning to me where he was concerned, though, because we had this one moment of eye contact across the room, and it was like this unspoken...thing between us. For just a fleeting moment. I've heard the song occasionally over the last several years, done by a whole bunch of different people. The biggest hit, I think, was Bette Midler's. That's what the DJ had, anyway, so he played "Wind Beneath My Wings", because I asked for it. 

I was sitting at a table full of cops when it came on, and Blair was talking to Ryf and his date and a couple other people. It was just this momentary thing where he glanced my way and I caught his eyes...and it was right in the part of the song that goes, "I want you to know I know the truth, I would be nothing without you..." He smiled this shy little smile and looked away again, but I had this uncanny feeling he knew what was going on. 

And then Maya shows up. 

What hurts most of all is that I think Blair seriously believes I was going to stand there and let Gustavo Alconte's men burn him. First, I couldn't start screaming hysterically and pleading with them. If I tipped my hand how vital Blair was to me, they could use him to make me do anything they wanted. Further, I had to call the old bastard's bluff long enough to make sure he'd really do it. I would have yelled at the last minute. I don't know what in hell I would have said, but I would have said something. After all, what the hell's Maya ever done for me? Compared to Blair's life and safety, her safety meant little more than nothing to me. I'd have sold her in a heartbeat to stop them from burning Blair. The only catch is that if you give the enemy all you've got, they have no reason not to kill you. 

So Blair would have been saved the burn and probably killed, right along with me. It was a no-win situation. Everything I've ever learned told me that the right move was to stay silent, let them torture Blair--and keep a trump card that would ultimately get us out of there with our lives, even if we were disfigured or injured. As long as they needed something we could tell them, we would stay alive. That's the reason--aside from issues of loyalty--that keeps a lot of men from talking under torture. Once you talk, you're history. You're useless. 

But I know that no training I could receive would have made me able to stand there and listen to Blair's screams and watch his flesh turn black under the flames. I would have come up with something. But I can see that somewhere inside, Blair thinks I would have stood there and let him get burned. I'd sooner burn myself. 

Gustavo had his likable qualities. He was desperate to get to his niece, and I suppose if I were looking for Blair, I'd maim, torture, kill--whatever--if I felt desperate enough. I think Simon is still dodging calls from the feds on how he managed to get away. 

Entry #21 

I've never understood racial hate. It always seemed so pointless. I mean, if a white person stays out in the sun too long during the summer, their skin gets darker. So does that mean the change in pigmentation makes them inferior? I don't know. I've stopped trying to figure people out. I sometimes just feel like my role is to clean up after them, not understand them. Identifying their motives is vital, but empathizing with some of them is definitely impossible. 

Blair really helped Joel overcome his fears. I know it's probably not the best plan to put a shell-shocked bomb expert in the field with a sink or swim mentality, but Joel is the best we've got. And there's no other way to overcome a fear like that than to face it head on and spit in its eye. 

I don't kid myself that there won't be more hate crimes. We just had a gay bashing incident last night. Man, that was chilling. You know, all this stuff that runs through my mind about Blair, and then this guy comes staggering into the precinct, and nearly passes out telling the desk sergeant that three guys just got done beating the shit out of him outside a gay bar. 

Blair spotted him out in the hall and motioned to me. After he'd made the initial complaint to the desk sergeant, the jerk had told him we were having a backed up night and that he should take a seat on a bench there in the hall. I had a few words with that moron at the desk. You don't leave an injured crime victim sitting in the hall. Even if we were having a busy night--and even if he _is_ gay. It's chilling how many places irrational prejudice pops up. 

I think Blair missed his calling. He should have been a victim's advocate. He sat with him, calmed him down, ordered a couple of other cops around to go get a glass of water, some wet towels from the bathroom and some ice bags. So I could get the guy's statement while Blair's doing this great job of on-the-spot patch-up and counseling. By the time the ambulance got there, he was relatively relaxed, pretty much cleaned up, and we had a coherent description of his attackers. 

Blair bristled that I was yanking him into the men's room and scrubbing his hand off with bleach when I spotted the guy's blood on it. I calmly informed him I wasn't doing it because it was a gay man's blood, but because it was a stranger's blood, and if you've got any brains, you take every precaution. While he was indignantly wiping his hands, I asked him if he would have casual unprotected sex with someone he never met before. That seemed to drive the point home. 

But like everything else he does, Blair didn't think of himself first. He thought of the man sitting there suffering who had already suffered enough coldness and disrespect for one night. 

We had a really terrific evening out the other night. Blair came up with more tickets, this time to a performance of the Cascade Symphony. 

It was actually enjoyable getting dressed up and going out for a nice evening. I spend so much time at night cruising around the underbelly of Cascade or typing reports that I forget we have a decent nightlife here. And since I discovered my enhanced senses, music has become an amazing experience. I guess that's why I've been so crabby and stodgy about it around Sandburg. It's like it's this one really wonderful part of this whole situation that I don't want analyzed to death. He wants to experiment on me about it now, but I don't think he'll push it. If I can dial down the volume, but tune in the specific instruments, it can be...breath-taking. 

We had a great Chinese dinner after the concert, then walked home. We just talked. About anything and everything. About cases, about his life, my life, what kind of danish Simon brought to work that morning--life in general. By the time we got home, we were both winded, and fell asleep on the couch. 

When I woke up, he was sleeping in my lap. I know I dozed off somewhere along the line, and I think he did just before I did, but his head wasn't pillowed on my leg when he did. I sat there and watched him for a while, realizing how peaceful and perfect he looked there. Like a sleeping angel. Blair isn't feminine, or especially childish-looking. But he has a non-gender-specific kind of beauty about him that leaves me a little breathless. Okay, a lot breathless. 

I got called in. I was glad I caught the phone before it woke him. He grumbled a little when I moved him to get up, but he soon adopted a sofa pillow to replace my leg, and I covered him with the throw. He feels the cold more than I do. I squatted by the couch, only inches from his face, and just watched. Before I realized what I was doing, I leaned over and kissed his hair. 

Thank God he was sleeping soundly. He stirred a little, and I thought he smiled a bit in his sleep, but that had to be my imagination. But he was moving more now, so I stroked his back lightly and just whispered, "Sleep, Chief. Not time to wake up yet," and it worked. I probably could have said "the aliens have landed," and if it had been in the right tone, he would have settled down again. 

It was very hard to change and leave for work. To leave him. I stood in the doorway a minute and looked back at him. So beautiful and peaceful. God, I love him so much. And I'm so blessed that he's here, at least for now. 

Continued in part three.


	3. Chapter 3

Due to the length of this story, it's been split into four parts for easier loading.

## The Ellison Reports

by Candy Apple

Continued from part two.

* * *

The Ellison Reports - part three  
(Transcribed from Jim's diary by Candy Apple) 

Entry #22 

I don't even know where to launch this. Or how to talk about it coherently. So much has happened in the last several days, and it was all so...major. 

It all started with a jumper. A teenage girl spaced out on a designer drug. I did everything I could, but ultimately, it wasn't enough. The sad thing is, if a jumper picks a deadly enough locale, very little can stop them if they want to jump. It's still hard not to feel responsible. If I had just...I don't know... pounced on her sooner--but then maybe we'd both be dead. 

Golden is probably one of the deadliest drugs I've ever encountered. And I don't just mean because I had a taste of it first had. It's a wild hallucinogenic and what it did to my eyes--why would anyone want to take this crap? I mean, some drugs, I can actually understand the attraction, even if I don't approve of any of them. 

I've never felt such...complete terror as I did when I lost my sight. Technically, I had it, since I was seeing _something_. But that something might as well have been nothing. Might have been less surreal and unnerving if it had just been darkness. If it hadn't been for Blair, I would have gone insane. 

His presence calmed me. I knew perfectly well that he was no more an expert on Golden than I was--he knew what it was, but he's not a user nor does he hang around with users. And when I asked him what was going to happen if I didn't get my sight back, I knew he was just as uncertain and clueless as I was. But I focused on his voice, tried to learn what he _could_ teach me to help me through this, and used him as my eyes. 

The funny thing is, I never felt alone. It's easy to feel alone when you can't see anything. Blair stayed close to me physically, led me where I needed to go... hell, he even slept in my bed that first night when I was so damned scared I was never going to see anything but that nauseating gold light. It was like holding on to him was an anchor. I didn't feel like I was losing touch with reality, because I still had Blair's scent, his heartbeat, the warmth of him next to me...he was my reality. 

He wields a pretty wicked laser pointer in a crisis. Only Blair could turn that into a useful police weapon. 

When I realized Blair had gotten a load of that Golden-laced pizza, my heart just about stopped. I could barely find my way around, and he was in trouble. Not only was I panicky because my anchor was now gone, but because he needed me and I didn't know if I'd have what it took to be there for him. When I challenged him out there in the police garage, I knew it would be the end for both of us if it went wrong. He'd shoot me and he'd be shot from about four directions afterwards. 

Somehow, through the fog we were both in--me with no worthwhile eyesight and him with very little worthwhile brainpower _or_ eyesight--we communicated. I don't know if it was just the sound of my voice, or something more...spiritual that he could feel, but he finally trusted me, and I trusted him enough to challenge his threats to shoot. He didn't really want to shoot me, and I knew if he did it would be because he couldn't tell the difference between me and whatever hallucinations he was having. 

When I got a hold of the gun and he slid off the car into my arms, I treasured the moment, as horrible as it was. I was so afraid he was going to die right there, that I had to memorize the living smell, sound and feeling of him. His heartbeat was racing, he was sweating...and I vowed if it killed me I'd nail the bastard who did this to him, blind or not. Blind isn't dead--Blair gave me the strength and the courage and the reassurance to realize that--and whoever had hurt him this way was going to find that out. 

One of the hardest things in the world was leaving his bedside to pursue the case. I was so afraid that when I got back, he'd be gone. He drifted in and out a little, said my name a couple of times, and then even that stopped and he was silent. The doctor didn't say he was in a coma, but he wasn't conscious. There was brain activity the whole time, but until he regained consciousness, no one knew how coherent or normal he would be. And to deaden a brain like his would be one of the worst crimes I can imagine. 

I know taking off in Simon's car was a hell of a dumb risk, but I knew that bastard had come close to killing Blair. As it was, he might have caused him to be a vegetable for the rest of his life. Killing him wouldn't have hurt me even slightly. But I brought him in--I'm no murderer, and Blair needed me more with him than he did in prison. I had already decided that if he was incapacitated or brain damaged from this fiasco, he would still be with me, and I'd still be taking care of him. He wasn't going to be one of those drooling drug cases that sit slumped in a chair in some sanitarium's day room. I couldn't very well look out for him if I was doing time. 

When I got back to the hospital that evening, he was still out of it. I sat there and watched him sleep for a while, and finally I sat on the bed and leaned close to him. I finally said what I had to say, because I was getting scared that he was never going to come around. I told him I loved him, and kissed his forehead. And I asked him to come back. Then I went back to my chair and slept there a few feet away. 

When he came to the next morning, it was as if God answered every prayer all at once. Not only was he awake, but those incomparable eyes of his were as alert and mentally "present" as always, even if a little sleepy. I went over to him and said something inane about him scaring the hell out of me. Then he looked at me real seriously, and touched my face, and said "I came back like you asked. I love you too." I almost passed out, and all the stress and the fear just blurted out. I pulled him carefully into my arms and held on while I cried, and maybe he did a little too. 

I knew he didn't mean he loved me the _way_ I loved him, but he did love me, and he was safe and healthy again and alive--and all that was all that mattered. I guess that's probably why things didn't take off with Margaret. I like her a lot, and I enjoyed talking to her on the phone. I would have liked her as a friend, but like most women, that wouldn't be enough for long. I know that sounds sexist but in my experience, it's been true. Not many single women I've met want to stay buddies with single men. Some do, I know, but I haven't had a lot of female _friends_. They might be out there, but I haven't run into many. 

She seemed interested in dating, getting romantic and touchy-feely. I know I should just go ahead and do that. But yet at the same time, Blair seemed genuinely discombobulated because I had anything to do with her. I wonder why? It was like he didn't want us to meet, and was disappointed when we did, and then further defeated because she was coming back to see me. Could he have meant something more at the hospital than brotherly type love? 

That's a stretch. He probably has some other reason, but I'm damned if I can figure it out. 

Entry #23 

I figure that whatever shreds of my sanity I still had left are shot to hell. Most men are disappointed when they find out a beautiful woman who sparks their interest is taken. I was relieved. I liked Sheila, once she drew in her claws and we got past all the crap that went down during the Pendergrass ordeal. She's trying to establish herself as a tough, no-nonsense IA cop in a precinct full of men. Now, I'm no social systems expert like Sandburg, but that's gotta be tricky. So I guess she was just flexing her muscles before. 

Ordinarily, I'd have been interested in getting her to flex some other muscles this time around, but I ended up dozing off on her couch. Of course, the appearance of a fiancee kind of explains why she wasn't interested in anything either. 

We did have a good visit, a nice dinner, and I feel like a made a friend. I was attracted to Sheila, and for a few minutes there at her place, I had some ideas about making a move. 

This thing with Blair is like being on a bungee cord. One minute I'm checking him out, thinking of all the things I'd like to throw him in the back of the Expedition and do to him, and the next minute, I realize how stupid that is, and I find out that my libido still works just dandy checking out a well-built woman. So it's as if I jump off toward Sandburg, that doesn't really come together, so I bounce back to looking at women, but that's hollow, so I snap back to thinking about him and get frustrated and then head out after a woman and so on and so on... I've never done ambiguity well, and this is driving me nuts. 

I've gotten way off track here. 

Most people wouldn't consider getting wax blown out of their ears a traumatic experience. I had a really bad feeling when she came after me with that syringe full of water. I knew Blair was out in the waiting room--I wondered how insane I'd look, and how fast the guys from the psycho ward would show up--if I started backing away from her and yelling for him. I mean it literally reduced me to that in my mind. I can recall vaguely getting my ears blasted like that once when I was a kid, and it was no big deal. I was a little freaked out at the sight of the syringe, but since it ultimately wasn't painful and I got a balloon for my trouble, it didn't stand out as a big trauma. 

As soon as we left the doctor's office, I noticed things were starting to annoy me--little things. It was like my environment was suddenly...unbearably noisy. I got home, Blair made dinner--I could hear every movement--right down to the oregano sliding together between his fingers as he sprinkled it into the sauce he was making. I didn't tell him about the wax thing because I figured it was no big deal. Maybe sometimes I want to be normal--I don't want every little thing to be a big deal. 

We ate, and he finally fell silent when I looked annoyed at every word he said. The truth was, his voice was deafening. Now, knowing Blair as I do, and knowing that his speaking voice generally is, if anything, soft and somewhat soothing, I was fully aware he wasn't shouting at me, but it sounded like it. When I could see I'd hurt his feelings, I finally came clean. There was no reason to insult him when I wasn't even annoyed with _him_. 

I told him about the wax thing, and that everything was louder now. He responded that it wasn't all that surprising that I was having problems, and expressed some enthusiasm over what this meant for the true power of my hearing. And he did all of it in what would have been an almost inaudible whisper to any normal ears. Then he worked with me, slowly raising the volume of his voice, forcing me to consciously dial down my hearing as he "dialed up" his voice. 

After a couple hours of this, I had a headache, the food was cold, but I could tolerate his voice at a normal level. As long as he didn't shout at me or make any sudden, unexpected vocalizations (God help the poor guy if he had to sneeze off schedule), we were okay. 

I thanked God the phone didn't ring for the rest of the evening. I found out later that Blair turned off all the ringers in the house and turned off both cell phones. I could still be reached via my pager, which he knew would give Simon a way to get a hold of me if there was a work-related emergency. 

That should have given me a peaceful night's sleep. It didn't. Every little noise invaded my brain from all sides. Even the ear plugs Blair had given me to protect against unexpected noises didn't help. I finally got out of bed and went downstairs and ripped the pen out of his hand. He was writing too loud. Seriously. I thought I was going to go nuts. I thought maybe I already was. 

Blair talked the whole thing over with me for a while, and even though he didn't really come up with anything new, it somehow made me feel better. He started to look wilted near three, so we parted company and I tried sleeping again. That's when I heard the whole incident with the helicopter. It still freaks me out to think I was able to hear what was happening that far away. 

Of course, proving cops are dirty is a hell of a tough job even when you have concrete evidence. When you're trying to convince the powers that be that you saw someone dropped out of a helicopter a half-mile out over the water in the dead of night--you can forget it. I didn't blame Sheila for being skeptical. 

The office was a whole new descent into hell. I sat there with my head pounding and my hearing pulled in about 300 directions at once. I was in such a damn rotten mood by the time Blair showed up all enthusiastic that I wanted to slap the smile right off his animated face. Didn't he understand how fucking miserable I was? Furthermore, didn't he realize my sanity was hanging by a very tiny thread? 

When he set that stupid little noise generator in front of me, I was about ready to strangle him with my bare hands. Just what I needed. Another noise. Then he presents me with these ear plugs that look like something out of a bad sci-fi movie. Little antennae and all. So I stuck them in my ears, ready to suffer yet another assault on my battered sanity--unbearable rushing noise in both ears. 

For some reason, my ears tolerated the noise generators, and between the plugs and the one on the desk, it helped me sort out all the other stuff and dial it down. Maybe it had a calming effect. I'm not sure. But it worked. Then I thought of all the questions Sandburg was going to ask about _why_ it worked, and all the experiments he'd want to tinker with, and my head was pounding, and my fuse just about nonexistent. I almost snapped his head off when he asked about a "thank you". I know I hurt him pretty badly the way I treated him about it. He doesn't deserve to be chewed out because I'm having a shitty day, but he usually gets it. And he cares enough about me to put up with it. 

I got Sheila to let Blair in on the case, which was kind of a stretch, since he isn't a cop. It never hurts to have friends in IA, so I figured having a friendly dinner with her would be a good idea. We had a nice meal at an Italian place--not DaVinci's. I know it's dumb but I don't seem to ever take dates there anymore--it's like it's Blair's and my place, which is really stupid since we only went there once. Then we went back to her place and talked for a while. I had the brief thought of putting the moves on her, but it went as fast as it came. 

Since I fell asleep on her couch, I figured the least I could do was invite her to breakfast. She suggested my place--and she'd cook. I had to change clothes to go to work, so as soon as she was ready, we headed for the loft. 

It was hard to read what was really going on with Blair. He was surprised, I know, to wander out of his room and run into a woman in the kitchen. I didn't worry about it, because Blair doesn't generally wander through the loft naked and belching in the morning--though I have seen him wander out of his room looking like he just stuck his finger in a light socket with hair practically on end, in his underwear, yawning and scratching himself, to get the coffee started. Fortunately, this was not one of those mornings. I figured nothing would happen that would offend her or embarrass him, and it didn't. 

To get back to what I was saying about reading him--on one level, it was like he was pulling the old "nudge-wink" routine with me, and on another level, I felt like he was really upset that I had been out all night. It was his heart rate, his breathing, the tone of his voice--almost imperceptible little clues--that let me know he was really a little unhinged that I had been out all night and that Sheila was here now. So I told him what happened. 

It was probably my imagination, but it seemed like Blair sort of plunked himself in the middle of the whole situation and took over serving breakfast. What in hell he was talking about incestuous relationships in police departments for, I'm not sure. I just wish he hadn't chosen to do it while he was dishing up my eggs. I think Sheila was beginning to wonder just what else Blair normally dished up for me in the morning. Yeah, right. In my dreams, maybe. The wet ones. 

At any rate, the noise generators ended up being like training wheels. They helped me learn how to control my hearing, and by the time the case was over, I was okay again. 

When Blair and I were at the mall the next day, I wandered into a couple of stores with him while he bought some mundane stuff like socks and underwear--you know, it must be some kind of social phenomenon--I'll have to ask Blair. He's the expert. When you shop with someone who buys underwear, you suddenly feel that all of yours is old and worn too, and you end up picking some out yourself. Maybe I like shopping for underwear with Blair. How kinky is that? 

Of course he held up a pair of black silk boxers with big red lips all over them in front of himself and wiggled his hips just to crack me up as I was trying to pay for my stuff. Does he do anything the bland, ordinary way? 

And I sure would love to see his ass in those black silk boxers... 

Trust me, walking through the mall, trying to carry your shopping bag strategically to cover half a hard-on is _not_ fun. Thank God the next stop was the food court. I could hide it under the table until it went away. The food at our mall's food court can deflate anything. 

When we went into the music store, I know Blair was watching me to see if I was dialing everything down. I did fine. We'd bought the boring stuff like new floormats for the truck, some blank disks for Blair's computer, the underwear--though I guess that wasn't boring after all--and we'd picked out paint and a new faucet for the bathroom--another exciting project that waited for us the following weekend. The other faucet had dripped for the last time, and even though I could tune it out now, I was pissed off enough at the inanimate hunk of metal to rip it out and throw it in the trash. 

So while we were in the music store, I watched Blair hunting and gathering. He goes through this process of picking up about six CDs and putting probably five, sometimes all six, back. He's not exactly loaded on his stipend from Rainier, though I know not paying rent helps. Of course he seems to lose the money somewhere, I suspect mainly on the ancient books and other artifacts he either borrows or buys. 

I caught him before the re-distribution process, with a record number of eight CDs in his hands, and asked if he was going to get those. He just laughed a little and said "No way, man. Just looking them over." So I asked him about them, and he started describing each one--in that same enthusiastic way he does everything. So I took all eight out of his hands and headed for the cashier, with him chasing me down the aisle, asking me what I was doing. I told him to think of it as a bonus for all his help on the case. (Actually, it was a little bonus for the bump and grind with the black boxers, _and_ the noise generators he never got his "thank you" for.) He was as excited as a little kid with a bag full of toys. 

Of course, now I have to listen to them rattling the doors on his room. Who says _any_ good deed goes unpunished? 

Entry #24 

I really do get tired of watching good people die. Mitch Reeves was a good man. I myself walked around suspecting him of being a psychotic firebug. But he wasn't, and ironically, it was his obsession with fire and his research and work on making those suits that saved Deborah's and my lives. 

I know Blair's been having some trouble with his eyes lately. I just chalked it up to eye strain. But he was laid out on the couch when I got home for about three days in a row with a washcloth over his face and his stuff spread everywhere, half-finished. So after I pressured him a little, I find out the kid needs his eyes checked and can't afford to go do it. Like I wouldn't have loaned him--hell, given him--the money to do it. His eyes are his life. I mean, everyone's are, I can attest to that. But with Blair, he's always reading or working on his laptop or grading papers--he's using his eyes intensely every moment he's conscious, just about. 

So after he put up the expected protests, I made it clear he was going to a good eye doctor--not some guy in the mall. I suppose those guys are good, but I wanted him to see an opthamologist. He was having severe headaches, his eyes looked like hell and he was miserable. 

I went with him to the doctor's. I know he didn't need me tagging along, but in a way it was good, because I figured he'd have gotten drops in his eyes, and I didn't want him driving that way. Plus, if there was something significant wrong, I didn't want him to hear that alone. He went to my physical appointment with me, so I figured I'd give him the same moral support. 

We had a few laughs picking out the frames that went with the new lenses. And that was all he needed. A new prescription. He thanked me about fifty times, but all the thanks I needed was to see those incredible eyes clear and lively and functioning comfortably again. Which led me to another decision. If Blair was ignoring something as vital as his eyes because he couldn't afford the eye care, what was he doing about the doctor? I mean, what if he had some medical symptom and ignored it because he couldn't afford the medical care? Or his teeth--did he ignore toothaches too because he couldn't afford the dentist? He just shrugged it all off that most fellowships didn't come with insurance packages, but I wasn't letting it go. He's too important to me to let him wander around without coverage. 

So I called my insurance agent, had him get me the best quotes on the top medical, dental and vision coverage. I knew I wanted the best company, so after he got done pitching all the dark horses to me, he got me the forms I needed to have Blair fill out and sign. 

I had to really argue Blair down to the floor to get him to fill those out and take the insurance. I told him it was only fair since he was essentially working free for the police department--i.e., for me. He didn't go for that explanation. So I tried the truth. I told him that I didn't want him to get sick or let something major go because he didn't have the coverage to get it taken care of. And that he was too damned important to me to leave all that to chance. 

I didn't expect him to get all misty-eyed on me, and then start crying, but he did, and I ended up holding him for a few minutes, which I didn't mind at all. He said something to the effect that no one ever did anything like that for him before, and that it was too expensive--the coverage was too good. I laughed a little and hugged him tighter. And explained to him very truthfully that only the best would do. I wanted to tell him that I wouldn't entrust something as precious as him to anything less, but that was more than I felt I should say. No point in making him think insurance was my boring attempt at seduction. 

God, I'm glad Carolyn can't read this. She'd be in convulsions right now, saying that it was just like me to shower the one I loved with something romantic like health insurance. 

Divorce is indeed a wonderful thing. As I polish off the last of this beer, I drink a toast to whomever invented it. At least Blair never accuses me of being a bore, even if I am. 

Entry #25 

I really thought I was done with Colonel Oliver. When that bastard popped up out of the past, it was not a welcome surprise. Thank God I had that pain thing to focus on. Otherwise, this one would have probably not ended well. 

You know, what made the biggest impression on me (yeah, even bigger than being abducted--that's happened before--which is another story I don't care to wallow through tonight) was Blair's reaction to the whole thing. I know he loves me. He's said it right out. The whole golden situation made us both face that we were important to each other, and Blair nearly dying made us come right out and say it. I know I don't say much to him along those lines most of the time, and I guess I wanted to know I'd said it at least once. But Blair was really unhinged by the whole thing. 

I know he was chased around by gunmen, but he's had that happen before, unfortunately. I also know he's used to not being taken seriously sometimes by Simon or the other guys at the station. And again, he'd coped with that. The incident with Jack Kelso getting shot shook him up a lot too. But none of that seemed to be what really got to him. He was worried about me. 

Now that doesn't sound all that surprising, I know. I'm not surprised he was worried or that he cared what happened to me, but I guess it took me by surprise just how much. 

I spotted Blair down in the alley while I was still on the roof. I immediately focused every sense on him. His heart was pounding almost out of his chest, his pulse was all over the place, and I could see a pleading in those big blue eyes of his--he was more than a little anxious to see me. 

So I started downstairs, and halfway down, I could hear him pushing his way through the cops and forensics people who had begun infiltrating the building, and then he was bounding up the steps toward me, and we met on a landing. 

Trust me, Blair's not big but he's a substantial package to get hit with at high speed. He just about flew at me, still on a dead run from the steps, and the impact of his body hitting mine just about winded me. I don't think I've ever had anyone manage to get their arms that tightly around my neck from that angle before, so to save myself some dislocated vertebrae in my neck, I caught him around the waist and straightened up, taking his feet a few inches off the ground. 

"Hey, Chief, it's good to see you too," I said through a little chuckle, once I got my breath. He was still holding on, so I did too. 

"I thought maybe you were already..." He blurted the first part out but then didn't seem able to finish it. I didn't think it was possible for him to squeeze my neck any harder, but his hold tightened. 

"All in one piece, buddy. I'm fine." I wasn't sure what to do, standing there on a landing with an armload of Blair that wasn't letting go. I didn't want to shake him off, but I also didn't want to be standing there with him wrapped around me like a wet t-shirt when Simon caught up to us. "I've got to put you down, Chief. I'm getting a little tired here." I gave him a little squeeze as I put him back on his feet, and when he stepped back, he was self-consciously brushing at his eyes. 

"Sorry, man. Guess I got a little carried away." He chortled a little uneasily. "You're sure you're okay?" 

"Yeah, just tired. Let's get the clean-up work done. I'm ready to go home." 

So we did just that. I gave my statement, filed my report, all with Blair just about glued to my side. He looked uneasy when I excused myself to go to the men's room back at the station, and infinitely calmer when I came back and resumed my usual seat at the desk--with him in a chair right next to me, practically under my elbow every time I moved to do something. I got a little irked with him until I realized that he had been _that_ riled up at the thought of losing me. And that made it really easy to put up with him cramping my space, and to spare him an occasional pat on the arm or hand on the shoulder while we were talking. 

We finally got to go home a couple hours later, and he fixed dinner while I showered and changed into my robe. I was really exhausted, and it was catching up with me. I know I was pretty silent while I ate, but Blair seemed to pick up on my fatigue and just silently served me dinner and sat--again, practically in my pocket--at the table with me to eat it. He didn't eat a whole lot himself, but I could tell from just casually monitoring him that he was still keyed up. It's funny how easily I do that with Blair. With other people I have to stop and focus. With Blair, I just dial things up a little once in a while to make sure he's okay--healthy, happy, calm. He was healthy, but the happy or calm part was debatable. 

I finally went up to bed, but I knew he was still shaken up. Again, that made me feel sorry for him but it made me feel a warmth I hadn't felt since...God, thinking back...I guess I never felt it. I don't think anyone's ever loved me that way. I never had any illusions that Carolyn couldn't live without me, and at times, I seriously doubted that my death would cost her a hell of a lot more than a few days' bereavement leave. But seeing Blair's reaction to the thought of losing me--it warmed something inside that's...I guess that's never really been alive before. As I started dozing off, I remember thinking, "so that's what love's all about." 

Something disturbed me shortly after I went to sleep. When I finally gave in and opened my eyes, Blair was standing there by the bed, looking like he didn't quite understand why he was there or what he wanted. I knew. I could sense it in every part of my soul, and it wouldn't have taken a sentinel. 

I moved over and held open the covers, and he scooted into the vacated space and curled up with his head on the pillow where my head had been a moment ago. He needed security, and closeness. Reassurance that I was really there, and he wasn't going to wake up and find out that I was really dead or still missing. 

I spooned myself around him and covered us both. I felt his hand grab onto my arm when it crossed over his stomach. I asked him if he thought he could get some sleep now, and for the first time, he sounded really relaxed when he mumbled back that he'd probably sleep for a week. 

Holding him felt so good, I wish we could have stayed like that for a week. The way it felt to be loved like that...defied words. 

Entry #26 

Over the course of my career in the military, then as a cop, I've had to come to terms with the fact that sometimes it's a necessity to take another life. I've never taken it lightly or killed when I could have handled the situation another way. For the very first time, I would have relished killing. It's unsettling to know there's a part of me deep down inside that can have feelings that...homicidal...cold-blooded. 

When I heard that explosion, and I had that son of a bitch by the throat, and I thought Blair was dead--all I could think of was making him pay for taking away the most important thing in the world to me. Probably the only person I really ever loved that deeply--and the only one who ever loved me that much. 

In the end, it was only the thought of what Blair would think of killing someone in cold blood that kept me from tossing the son of a bitch out the window and watching his innards splatter all over the cement below. 

When I found out he had dropped the bomb through a hole in the floor of the elevator and everyone was all right--I felt like someone had removed my spine. I was jelly. It was like the shock of losing Blair and the shock of getting him back sort of smashed together and I could hardly make it to go downstairs and find the floor where they were unloading the hostages. 

Blair wasn't with the others when I got there. Joel pointed me toward the restroom, smiling and saying "the kid looked a little green around the edges". 

Blair was green all right. When I got into the restroom, I could hear him in one of the stalls. He was down to dry heaves by the time I got to him. I know he hates heights, and the whole mess was probably just catching up with him. He had held up so well for those people, now he needed someone to hold up for him. 

I knelt there on the floor with him, holding his hair back until he was sure he was done, and then we just sort of slumped there a minute, me wiping off his mouth and chin and him just lying back against me like he had no energy left at all. It felt great just to hold him, even if he did smell like sweat and puke at the moment. All that meant to me was life. 

When we got home, he flopped on the couch, exhausted. His stomach was still upset and he just needed rest. So I pulled his shoes off and covered him with the throw. Then I got myself a book and sat on the other couch and listened to him breathe. I thought about terrorists and hard-nosed corporate types. I thought about sociopaths like "Galileo"--pretentious little shits who really aren't important to anyone until they do something horrible. I wondered about Kaitlin and her kid. 

And I wondered how I could have ever faced coming back into this place without Blair. How I could have come in here and touched his things and packed up his possessions and cleaned out his room and resigned myself to deal with his death. I don't usually have to flee in terror from mere thoughts. But these were so painful I couldn't look them in the face. I ran far and fast. I lost myself in the book for a little while, and in the steady thump of that precious heartbeat. 

I told Blair later how proud I was of him. That's very true. He's a pretty remarkable little guy under pressure. He has an inner strength that you don't expect from him. The only reason _I_ see Blair fall apart is because he trusts me. And when something hurts, he comes to me to fix it. I hope he always trusts me that way. 

Entry #27 

I would have never pictured plutonium being a big threat in Cascade. But then, I've learned to expect the unexpected in my life. 

Blair really gave us a good lead with figuring out Sergei's origins. I think even Simon is starting to realize that he can be a real asset to the department, in addition to being my keeper. 

Micki is a pretty amazing woman. She's strong, courageous, responsible. I don't know if I could have handled a life as difficult as hers as well as she has. But she's made a good new life now for herself and her sister, who will be getting the medical treatment she needs to recover. 

She seemed interested to see me again. I know I would find an evening with her fascinating--just learning more about her life before coming to this country, her struggles...but I also know she was interested in a date, not dinner with a friend. If I could just move past this feeling about Blair and move on with my life, I would probably have asked her out. But she's had enough trouble in her life without having someone mess around with her who doesn't have any intention of ever making a commitment. 

So it's going to still be up to my overtaxed right hand to take care of business for the time being, and she'll just have to be a big sleighted that I wasn't interested. Better that than hurt when I don't turn out to be Prince Charming--and instead more strongly resemble the frog. 

Blair got an article published in a scholarly periodical this week. He was more than mildly excited. He already has the dander up of some of the old guys on the faculty, since this isn't the first time he's published. He's getting a better reputation at his age than some of them have now. While I'm proud of him beyond words for that, it makes me that much more aware of how unlikely it is that he'll stay satisfied to hang out with me for much longer. He's brilliant, talented, and he's building a significant professional reputation right now. Why would he settle for living and working with me? 

I offered to take him out for dinner to celebrate, and he voted for the Emperor's Palace. I like that place real well too, so we made reservations and ordered a dinner for four. No, we have no pride when it comes to stuffing our faces, and this was a special occasion. 

The food there is good, but one of my favorite things about the place is the seating arrangement. When you sit in those curved booths, it's real easy to end up in the other person's personal space. And Blair's personal space doesn't exist. He started sharing it with me almost immediately. So we ate off each other's plates, coaxed each other into trying some bizarre menu items we flagged the waiter down for from time to time--just generally had a great time. 

Eventually, I got around to bringing up his feelings about hanging around with me. When Blair does something major, like get published, I can't help but assess the likelihood of this relationship surviving. I have to admit, though I don't know if I actually would admit it to anyone in so many words, I've never been able to shake off what Carolyn said about me. Several things, really. But the overall opinion of me was that I was a bore. I was uninventive in bed, I was married to my job, I was uptight, I was unresponsive and uncommunicative--shit, the list was longer than I care to remember. But I _do_ remember it. As much as I want to forget it. 

So I made some leading comment about wondering how long he'd be interested in hanging around with a boring cop like me. His response just blew me away. He told me I was steady, subtle and deep--translated to mean that I was always there for him, I wasn't showy with my feelings but I showed him in a lot of little ways, and that I had "layers", which were worth investigating. And if someone said I was boring, it was because they didn't look hard enough below the surface, or something like that. 

Man, I felt ten feet tall. I wanted to pull him into my arms and kiss him right there. But just because he loves me and _likes_ me, just the way I am, doesn't me he's ready to change his sexual orientation for me. So I let it slide at squeezing his hand. 

I find I don't say a whole lot to Blair about what he means to me, because it runs too deep. It's probably wrong of me not to look for the words, because I know it leaves him feeling unappreciated sometimes, but if I ever turned it loose, I'd never rein it back in again. Because I realized what love really is for the first time in my life with Blair. For the first time, I've wanted to make love to someone before I wanted to "have sex" with them. Yeah, sure, I want to get off on something besides my own hand for a change, but it's so much more than that. I want to touch him, taste him, smell him, zone out on him...I want to touch every part of him with love...make it so good he'll never go near anyone but me. But I want to turn those feelings into something tangible. It's like all the lust and love have found their way to blend together. I still leer at him sometimes, when I can get away with it. But I never really picture slamming him on the nearest horizontal surface and drilling him to the floor. I picture kissing him, caressing him, taking him--sure...but slowly and with all the love that's built up for so long. Making a commitment to each other... 

Shit, what do I want? To marry him? Well, the inescapable truth is, if he were a woman, we'd have been married last year sometime if he'd said yes. Suddenly, gender seems more like a fucking curse than a biological characteristic. 

I'm so damned tired of feeling this way and not being able to do anything about it. I'm sick of being alone, and there's someone in my life that makes it complete...and I can't have him. Not that way. 

Maybe Blair's right about this past life stuff. Maybe I was an evil person in a past life, and so now I get to have the thing I really want dangled in front of me but just out of my reach until I go nuts. 

Entry #28 

Well, let's see. First it was plutonium, now it's poisonous spiders. One thing I'll say for this city--the criminals aren't ordinary. If I were to move to New York City, I'd probably be overworked but bored. Simple run of the mill murders, rapes, robberies, etc. Cascade seems to be specializing in the exotic. 

As usual, Blair managed to get himself right in the middle of the action. I'm glad Alec is safe, but the arrogant little shit got himself into his own mess, and quite frankly, it wouldn't have been worth Blair's life to get him out of it. Maybe he learned something from almost being bitten to death by spiders. I'm talking about Alec now, not Blair. He was only trying to help. 

For three nights straight, I was awakened at about two in the morning to shouts of "get them off me!!!" After the first night when I flew down the steps with my gun drawn, expecting to see Blair besieged by several criminals in his bed, and instead found him writhing around and kicking the bedclothes all over the place having a nightmare, I was a little less panicked by it. 

I felt sorry for him, since I could picture how crawly that whole experience could make you feel. When I got him peeled off the ceiling and convinced there were no tarantulas in his bed, he'd look embarrassed, turn about the color of a fire truck and apologize for waking me up. 

The nightmares I could forgive. The car fiasco started getting on my nerves. I know he loved that car, but geez, if it's dead it's dead. I hauled him to six garages while he described the damages and every time they told him to scrap it. By the time the sixth garage gave the same verdict, he was ready to give up. He was actually sitting there in tears over a car. 

I was all ready to line him out and tell him he was acting like a five-year-old over that damned car, but somehow, I can't stay mad at Blair long enough to really come down on him. But I still didn't know what to say to make him feel better when I couldn't understand the outburst. When we got home, he locked himself in his room and cried. 

I can't stand hearing him cry. He doesn't really do it all that often, but I guess I end up writing about it when he does because it rips my guts out. After listening to him for a couple of minutes, I couldn't stand it anymore. I went into his room and sat on the bed, next to where he had flopped on his stomach and was crying into his pillow. Why this brilliant almost-Ph.D. was sobbing over a dead car, I didn't pretend to understand. But he was hurting and there was no need for him to do it alone. 

I just sat there and rubbed his back while he cried. I didn't say anything, because I didn't know what to say. He knew it was a dead issue, and he knew he would eventually get another car, and he knew life went on, and he knew all that--so why badger him by stating the obvious? 

"That...car was...special," he choked out. 

"I know, Chief. I'm sorry the whole mess happened. I know you loved it." 

"I was...supposed to...take care of it." 

"It was an accident, Blair. And you had nothing to do with it." The backrub seemed to be relaxing him a little and quieting the tears. "When you're ready to look, I'll help you find another car. Meantime, you let me know when you need a lift, okay?" There was a little nod. "Why don't you wash up and we'll fix some dinner, huh?" Another nod. I stood up and patted his back one more time before leaving. 

"I'm sorry I made such a scene about this," he said quietly, still not moving his face out of the pillow. 

"It's okay, Chief. No harm done." 

So we fixed dinner together and while he was pretty subdued, he seemed okay. I still don't get the whole mess with the car, but like I said--I can't sit back and watch Blair hurting and not do something. Even if I can't fathom _why_ he's hurting. All I know is that it wasn't long after I went to him that he seemed okay again. It's a good feeling to be able to do that for someone--to be able to fix things that are wrong for the people you love. 

This whole love thing is new to me, so I guess it's going to take a while to figure out. I know that sounds melodramatic, and I don't mean it to. I also don't mean to sound like I'm bashing Carolyn all the time. We just really weren't meant to be together. We wanted opposite things out of a relationship. I wanted someone to love, someone to spend time with, someone to take care of (not because they aren't capable, but because...I don't know...I guess just because I want to), someone who could challenge me and be good company, somebody to get old with, somebody to get into ruts with...somebody to be "one" with. 

She wanted a "life partner"--someone to live with, to love--but yet to stay totally independent of each other. Separate bank accounts, everything halved with both names on it. I don't object to that because I have some kind of problem with my spouse being an equal. It just seems so...separate. 

Blair and I are all tangled up now--he buys some groceries here and there, but I don't ask him for rent. I pay those bills but he does about 75% of the cooking. We don't divide everything up into whose turn it is or how much we each paid. If I'm short on money, he'll pick up our lunch tabs for a few days or sometimes he'll pay a bill or two he finds lying around if he's got some extra money. If he's running out of money at the end of the month, sometimes I'll buy him something he needs or "loan" him money to get by for a few days. Nobody keeps track. 

The "separateness" between Carolyn and me left me cold. Even when it came to making love. She was beautiful, sexy, exciting--but there was an emotional element missing for me that made it what she called a "hit and run" experience. We went at it, and then I wanted to roll over and go to sleep. There was a tenderness missing...ironically, the tenderness I felt turning my whole body into mush when Blair crawled into bed with me that night after the Oliver incident. He needed me and reached out to me, and it felt great to reach back and meet that need. 

I'm not blaming Carolyn or saying women shouldn't be independent, but so many times I'd want to do something for her or want her to do something for me that somehow overstepped my boundaries and she'd set me straight. After a while, I was afraid to do much of anything for fear I was going to piss her off and get another lecture on the error of my ways. 

Carolyn felt that becoming "one" with someone else meant giving up too much of yourself. She's right. Not necessarily that it's too much to give up, but it's a lot, and it's scary. I know I've invested everything in Blair, and I know how it would feel to have that torn away. The thing is, once someone else has that piece of your heart, you don't get it back. It travels with them. 

I learned very early on not to invest in my father. That would be akin to taking your money and flushing it down the toilet. Anything I invested in him when I was little, I lost. I know it sounds petty to still hold onto this now, but watching him with Stephen was something I never got over. He loved Stephen and was so excited about everything good the kid did. He came down on him just as hard when he fucked up, but somehow, I always felt that when he went after Stephen, it was to make Stephen a better person (even if it didn't work that way, I believe that was intention). When he came down on me, it felt like it was because he was pissed off at me, not because he cared if I was a better person for it. How does being disinterested in a kid make them a better person? 

I don't know how I got off on that tirade. I guess it's just that sometimes I'm a little amazed at the feeling of being somebody's favorite person. I know that Blair has a tendency to light up like a Christmas tree over a lot of things, but there's something different in the way he looks up at me or the way he lights up when he sees me. And the way he fusses and obsesses over me. I know some of that is his dissertation and his insatiable curiosity over the characteristics and habits of a sentinel, but a lot of it is friendship, and love. I don't think I've ever been "doted on" before. It's kind of a nice feeling. 

Damn. Looking back over this...never write an entry in one of these fucking journals after you've been out drinking with a bunch of cops at a bachelor party, eating greasy food and watching an ugly stripper. Frankly, I would have tucked a fifty in her g-string if she'd have put her clothes back on. 

Blair's asleep. I can hear him breathing, sometimes murmuring in his sleep a little. I'm probably disturbing him, pecking away out here at the kitchen table. He lets me use his laptop when I want to work at home. I just keep my stuff on disks and then take it in to the precinct to finish it up or print it off. 

He left me a note before he went to bed. He told me he hoped I enjoyed the party (he had to attend a lecture on campus tonight), and that there was a concoction in the fridge I should drink before I went to bed so I wouldn't get a hangover, and that there was also left-over chicken in there. 

What a guy. 

Entry #29 

Someone with my abilities should probably know better than to dismiss the possibility of a psychic helping the police. Some people have special abilities beyond the normal (big revelation, huh?), and Charlie Spring is one of those people. Why he has to be such an obnoxious, publicity-hungry little prick, I don't know. But he is a psychic, and he ultimately helped us out with this case. He probably could have helped more if I hadn't been fighting him all the way. 

I have to sit back an analyze why I did that. Was it all Spring? Or was it because he was another of Naomi's boyfriends? I don't have any reason to believe that Blair was abused by any of them, so why do I let his mother's whole lifestyle get to me all the time? It's not like I'm in any position to judge someone else. 

As it turns out, I was half right about him. He was setting us up so he could pump up his reputation and ultimately, boost his book sales. God, he was willing to use a missing child to do that. I hope Naomi truly does see the light where he's concerned, and realizes he's a jerk. He's gifted, but you know, you've gotta wonder if he'll ever really change. 

Blair seems to be making another run at it with Sam. I'm not sure why. Those two seem about as compatible as oil and water, but then I'm not exactly the Cascade PD's resident love expert. Personally, it seems like Blair is drawn to women who make him jump through hoops. There was Maya, Sam...I don't know about Chris--back when the whole Lash thing happened. I just know they eventually broke up and he took it pretty hard. So they went out, but he got home a little after midnight--on Saturday night. This is Blair "where's the party" Sandburg? I'm still trying to figure that one out. 

Of course, that meant Blair would probably be up and at 'em in the morning to have breakfast together and read the paper. I didn't regret that. He usually brings bagels or donuts and coffee upstairs just about the time I want to come to, along with the paper. Even though I usually have to get up to heed the call of nature by then (why do you feel compelled when you write to say something like that instead of "take a leak"?), there's nothing I like better than pulling on an old robe and flaking out on the bed, eating and reading and visiting with Blair, who's usually sitting cross-legged on the bed in whatever he slept in--anything from his undershirt and boxers to a t-shirt and sweatpants and socks--depending on the weather outside. 

We talk about everything from current events to sports to reading each other any article we think the other person might like--or sometimes just because we want to hash it over. Sometimes I start the crossword, and of course Blair can't stay away from anything that resembles a brain-teaser, so pretty soon he scoots up and sits where he can look over my shoulder and put his two-cents' worth in. 

If they ever change the schedule and take my Sunday morning away from me, I think I'll resign. What other time do I have a reasonable excuse to tackle Blair on a bed in his underwear? I guess I should explain that. 

He got involved in this article they saw fit to place on the back of the sports section, and he was purposely being a little shit about it--knowing he was driving me nuts and just trying to get a rise out of me. (God, am I destined to put my foot in my mouth in every entry? I'm talking about making me mad. Shit, I've got to get my mind out of the gutter--or get a sex life. That might help.) Anyway, he was almost smirking as he went on to enlighten me about another statistic about the number of immigrants who wear plaid underwear--or some equally significant social phenomenon--I don't actually remember anything about the stupid article. I got pissed off and made a snatch for the paper, which he was prepared for and leaned back out of my reach. Of course that meant he tipped over on his back and damn near fell on the floor. I caught him around the waist, since I sure as hell didn't want him to smack his head on the floor over a stupid newspaper article. With both hands on his bare sides under his tank shirt, I couldn't resist tickling him. 

He started wiggling like a puppy on an electrified fence (not that I've ever seen that, but that's what I imagine it looking like), squealing and kicking and pushing at me. He tried to get away, but that only succeeded in turning him to a more advantageous angle where I could really go after his stomach. He relinquished the paper, but I really didn't care about that by then. I was just having fun making him laugh, and I was laughing myself, and we were more rough-housing around than me just tickling him anymore. It turned into a pillow fight at some point. Thank God I don't sleep on feather pillows. 

When we were done, we were both winded, the room was a mass of displaced newspapers, mangled bedclothes, there was a bagel on the floor and Blair and I were laid out on our backs. Then he made a comment about what it would look like if we died right at that precise moment. 

I looked at him, flushed and breathless, his hair all over the place, glasses missing and God-knows-where, lying on my disheveled bed with even his underwear lopsided from me yanking him around. Then there was me--my robe was hanging open, I was panting like I had just gone several rounds with the world champion, and one leg was hanging off the bed. I started laughing, and so did he. We laughed like fools for quite a while, then he rifled through the pile of destroyed newspaper and came up with a portion of the sports section. We laughed even harder at that, and then decided we'd better catch our breath. 

We woke up an hour later, feeling pretty damned good. So we cleaned up the bedroom and went out to run errands and then came home and finally painted the bathroom. Then Blair clicked away on his laptop at the table while I watched a game on TV. Doesn't sound like much, I know, but it's one of the best Sundays I've had in ages. And if I'm lucky, it'll happen all over again in a few days. :-) 

Blair's teaching me a bunch of e-mail faces. I felt compelled to test it. 

Entry #30 

I keep wondering which incident out of my past is going to be the one that Blair just can't handle. He's a peacemaker, honest to a fault. I've had to do some things in my life I'm not proud of. And each time I lay one of them on him, he listens, evaluates, and asks a few questions. And then he accepts it and moves on. He did that with the whole Pendergrass issue, and with a lot of little things that I've let slip over the last couple years. 

Gordon Abbott's fate was partially my fault. Everyone involved, myself included, manipulated that poor schmuck into doing what we wanted him to do to suit our own goals. In the meantime, we mangled his life. I'm so grateful he found his family again, and that he has his life back. 

I'm sorry a man had to be tortured and murdered with a belt sander in the interim, and that two law enforcement officers had to lose their lives because of Dan Singleton. Thank God Joey wasn't with his mother anymore. That's not a mental picture a child should have to live with. It's bad enough his mother's living with it. 

Blair is off and running after Sam again. He was wandering the streets, looking for a birthday present, babbling about some kind of 48-hour window. I never heard of that. I've heard of the 24 hour piss-off. The day of the birthday--it begins with dawn of that day. You have from dawn until dusk to present a decent gift, or propose an absurdly overpriced evening out. After dusk you have the option of presenting a _really_ good gift (since you missed the evening out) and if you're on intimate terms, doing something special to honor the occasion. (Since I'm not too good at writing erotica, I'll leave that to your fertile imagination.) When dawn of the next day rolls around, if you haven't done anything, you're in the 24-hour piss-off zone. The only way out of it is a life-threatening injury (which makes your insensitivity pale in importance) or a piece of diamond jewelry. 

This is why I make a habit of either remembering a woman's birthday or not dating her more than once. It's a hell of a lot easier. 

So I guess I can admit I was jealous, and just a little bit happy when Sam refused his gift. I don't like feeling that way. I don't like spending so much time pining after him and wanting him and hating it when he mentions a female--let alone pursues one. So I guess I just let my own love life evaporate. Truth is, a good-looking woman can still get my motor running, but I feel like a real shithead just luring women into relationships so I can get them into bed and then dumping them. And the type of woman who appeals to me probably wouldn't put up with that anyway. I think I mentioned before that I like strong women--and most of them have some definite ideas about relationships, and being somebody's one-night stand usually isn't part of the picture. But I have a significant other in every sense except sexually. I just don't want to give that up for the sex. 

Now I know how guys in prison feel. It gets difficult to come up with new and creative ways to jerk off. A perp told me to "go fuck myself" the other day. After I got his face acquainted with a convenient mud puddle, and shoved him in the back of a nearby squad car, sputtering and cursing, I had to laugh at how accurate he was without even knowing it. Technically though, I guess that's anatomically impossible... 

It's been a long few days. Today was one of the longest. I think it's time to call it a night. I'm not prepared to analyze any more obscene sayings. 

Entry #31 

What would I really do if I lived in the kind of environment Marcus does, if I saw cash literally raining from the skies all around me? To a teenage kid you're trying to set an example for, you say you'd "do the right thing". What is that, anyway? You see your old man fighting a losing battle with slum lords, dealers are transacting their daily business on the streetcorners, girls younger than you are selling themselves for money after dark...what's right and wrong in Marcus' world? Is it the same as it is in our world? 

I tend to think if you take something that isn't yours, you're stealing, no matter how badly you need it. But then I was outraged when I was a kid and saw the play "Les Miserables". How could they put this otherwise law-abiding man in prison for most of his life for stealing a loaf of bread to feed his child and himself when he had no other way to save them from starving? Is this all that different from that? Desperate, impoverished people for whom there are no easy options? 

I don't know. I'm starting to sound like Sandburg. Not that that's always a bad thing. Blair is very understanding and empathetic toward people. He makes me take a second look at things even when I don't particularly want to. 

Planning his birthday party was actually fun. I'm not really a party planning expert, but I made the very wise decision of calling his favorite student assistant, Jennifer, and asked her to help. I told her what I had in mind--a really big blast at the Wilmington Hotel, with all of Blair's friends from the U as well as all of our friends from the station. I wanted a DJ, lots of food, but most importantly, a good guest list. 

She said she'd get the DJ, invite all the right people from Rainier and order the cake from a woman she knew who did phenomenal large party cakes. My jobs were to get the banquet room, order the rest of the food and invite the cops. Between the two of us, we put on a party that not only surprised Blair, but raged on until the small hours of the morning. The DJ was great--mixed up all the new stuff with some older stuff and plenty of dance music. The cake was...huge. And very nicely decorated with a giant "Happy Birthday, Blair" spelled out in chocolate chips. 

The chocolate chip thing is an inside joke. I don't do a whole lot of baking (and Carolyn didn't cook, so when we were together, we damn near starved to death, but that's yet another story). Anyway, I don't bake much, but one thing I can make is this chocolate chip cookie bar recipe that one of the detectives in Missing Persons e-mailed me after I ate almost half the tray she brought in by myself. 

I decided to do that one cold, snowy winter day when the roads were nearly impassible and there was nothing worthwhile on the tube. Blair, who was nearly suicidal with boredom at being shut in and had reached new levels of creativity in swearing at his laptop, which had seen fit to eat a section of his dissertation during some sort of application error, was more than ready to take a break and help me. That would have ordinarily been fine, except that I found out he had an insatiable lust for chocolate chips. He kept stealing them out of the bag while he did other stuff to "help out" in this big project that would have gone twice as fast if I'd done it myself. 

But I'd rather do anything with Blair than without him, so I let it slide until he'd eaten half the bag and I went to put them in the mix, and found I had this glob of cookie dough with only a few specks in it. 

He took a rather severe tongue-lashing that was more a product of cabin fever than the importance of the chips, and slunk off into his room and resumed fighting with his laptop. 

Looking at my somewhat gruesome, pallid cookie dough, I wiped my hands, put on my coat and trudged downstairs to the bakery. Mrs. Donoghue, the owner--she's a really nice older lady who usually feeds me something hot out of the oven whenever I come begging--was keeping the place open for some inexplicable reason. No one was on the street. But since she lives in another nearby apartment, I guess she trudged through the snow and opened the bakery like any other day. 

Anyhow, I begged a couple bags of chips from her, and went back upstairs. Blair was standing at the counter in the kitchen, chewing on his lower lip, examining the abandoned cookie mixture. 

"I really fucked up your cookies, didn't I?" he asked a little hesitantly as I came through the door and hung up my coat. "Are you still pissed off at me?" 

"These are for you." I tossed him one of the bags of chips, and then opened the other one. "These are for the cookie bars." I started the arduous task of limbering up the mixture, which was suffering rigor mortis from being left there, and dumped the chips into it as I went. Blair loitered right at my elbow while I did this. 

"I'm really sorry, man. I just got going and I didn't notice how many I'd taken--" I interrupted his apology by flopping an arm around his shoulders. 

"We're talking about chocolate chips here, pal--not a nuclear holocaust. Apology accepted. No big deal. Mrs. Donoghue needed to have at least one customer today anyway." I looked down into his still-uncertain face. I had really chewed him out royally before, and he was still a little laid back. "I'm sorry I snapped your head off over some stupid chips." 

"Next time, you better just make them and not tell me about it." 

"Next time I'll buy you your own bag of chips. Problem solved." I smiled and moved my arm back to the cookie project, and he grinned a little too. 

So chocolate chips are kind of a standing joke. It's the only really completely worthless food Blair has a weakness for. Mr. Eat-Right gobbles those things up like a food processor. 

And that's why I told Jennifer that whatever she did, she had to make sure the cake had plenty of chocolate chips on it. She did. 

But I digress. Badly. But then that's nothing new. 

The hardest part of all of it was keeping Blair in the dark. Have you ever tried living with a genius and planning a surprise party for him? It's damn near impossible. He finally thought I was helping one of the guy's plan a bachelor party for his brother. I had to say something when the half-assed idiot caterer called and left a message about the price of spicy chicken wings, or something equally vital. 

So what do you buy a guy like Sandburg for his birthday? I pondered that question for a few days until I heard him make some off-handed remark about having to read everything off his screen at home, and how he liked editing his stuff the old way--red pen on a hard copy. 

The answer landed in my lap as simply as that. So I went to the electronics place and bought him a printer the guy in the store assured me would hold up for printing out long documents on a regular basis at a decent speed. He rattled off a whole slew of things it would do, which sort of shot right over my head for a number of reasons. First, I never claimed to be a computer whiz; second, I didn't give a shit as long as it would print out Sandburg's reams of paper he loved so much, and finally, because he was one of those 18-year-old twerps who likes to hear himself use big technical words so it looks like he knows something. 

Blair was in class until about 4:00 on his birthday. So I knocked off work early, so I could set up the printer, which had been hidden under the camping gear in the back of the Expedition. 

An hour and a string of unrepeatable curses later, it was hooked up and functioning. Blair often left his laptop home if he was going to be spending time in his office, since he could use that computer. Fortunately for my plan, this was one of those days. 

I tied a big blue ribbon around it and stuck the card under the ribbon. I looked at the card with a little dismay. I'd picked up and put back no less than ten or twelve really nice cards with meaningful verses for "friend"--and I'd even lived out a few fantasies in the lover category--before choosing a tasteful, austere card I could have just as easily given to the paperboy. I kicked myself a little when I thought of how Blair would have reacted to one of the more emotive cards. It would have meant everything to him. 

As it was, when he discovered the printer, I heard this long silence, followed by Blair's full weight slamming against my back while I sat at the table, his arms going around my neck from behind as he got me in this overjoyed choke hold. That guy could kill a man when he's happy. Wonder what he'd have done if I'd yanked him around into my lap and kissed him senseless? Probably puked. If another guy ever tried kissing me, that would be my reaction. Any other guy but Blair. 

God, that's weird, isn't it? I mean, some of the more advanced sex stuff doesn't take shape real clearly in my mind, but I can picture kissing him, holding him...and actually, I can picture taking him. But that's still letting me have my cake and eat it. I get to be with the person I love, _and_ I get to essentially have sex the way I've always had it, just aiming at a different slot. That's not exactly fair to him--assuming he'd want to be on the receiving end all the time. He's certainly been with women, so why wouldn't I think he'd want to top? And that _really_ doesn't do it for me. I've tried to picture that, and all that comes to mind is OUCH. Hell, I hate that part of my annual physical. And that's one gloved finger. How in hell could I handle having a tree stump stuck up my ass in the name of love? 

Maybe the biggest reason I don't make a move on him, even at times when I feel like he might be receptive, is that I'm scared. There. I said it. I don't think I can handle having somebody do that to me. Not even Blair. But I want to do it to him, because then I could have the same sensations of shoving my cock into something hot and tight and thrusting my way to completion--just like always, only it would be with Blair, which would be like bringing all the strongest possible feelings one person can have for another one all together at once. 

How did I get off the topic of Blair's birthday party and end up with anal sex? I've heard of subject changes before, but I deserve a prize for this one. 

The long and short of it is, Blair had a lot of fun at his party. The food was great, the cake first-rate, the DJ did his job well, and everybody danced and ate until about 2:00 in the morning. Blair said it was the only surprise birthday party he'd ever had. Blair's the kind of person who was born to have surprise parties. Now I'll just have to think of a unique way to surprise him next year. 

I'll just slam him on the couch and kiss him until he can't breathe. That'll surprise him. It'd surprise me, too. It's late. I'm shot, and this thing is rambling into nothingness. Time to call it a night. 

Concluded in part four.


	4. Chapter 4

Due to the length of this story, it's been split into four parts for easier loading.

## The Ellison Reports

by Candy Apple

Continued from part three.

* * *

The Ellison Reports - conclusion  
(Transcribed from Jim's diary by Candy Apple) 

Entry #32 

It took me a long time to reconcile what happened to Gil Brody. He was young, inexperienced...and I should have put my foot down and pulled rank and insisted on going with Quinn myself, as originally planned. But I knew how much it meant to the kid to prove himself to his old man, and sometimes one major opportunity comes along in an entire career to really put your skills to full use. Gil was very sharp, the top of his academy class. And he was so damned urgent about it. I gave in. I have no one to blame but myself. Even Blair, who normally takes everything I tell him in stride, couldn't believe I "sent in a rookie." I tried to defend myself to him--not that he pursued it or stayed accusatory about it. He was just surprised. My defenses sounded as flat then as they did when it happened. Brody's old man never forgave me either. I don't blame him. I never forgave myself. 

It was right after that the shooting started. The first thing I did was unfasten Blair's seatbelt so he could get down. I knew he'd panic at the gunfire, and maybe not think clearly enough to do that for himself and then not be able to get down. It doesn't surprise me that my first inclination was protecting him. 

The worst of the gunfire was directed at the lead car and the van transporting Quinn. I almost smiled when Blair returned the favor and from his crouch down under the dashboard, unfastened my seatbelt and kept yelling at me to give it up and get my head down. He actually tried to pull on my arm at one point to force the issue. 

By that time, he was right. Staying upright was playing Russian Roulette, and I'm _not_ a betting man. I ducked down, covering Blair's head and shoulders with my own while the truck went off the road right into the heaviest gunfire. I could feel him jerking with every shot, and as the glass shattered out of all the windows, I wasn't a whole lot calmer. At any minute, one of the gunmen could show up and let us have it at close range. I got my hand on my gun, hoping I could get off one effective shot in time to save Blair. The way I was covering him, they'd hit me first. 

Then there was a brief respite in the shooting, and I could hear a helicopter in the distance. With our situation slightly improved momentarily, my thoughts went to Simon--who, ironically, like Brody, had taken my place with Dawson Quinn. I didn't have time to appreciate the analogy then, but it hit me like a ton of bricks several times over as we were trekking through the woods trying to find him. 

I called for back-up--frantically yelled for back-up is more accurate. I had no idea what was left of the other guys in the convoy. I realized with a start that I had unconsciously kept a hand on Blair's upper back the whole time, discouraging him from sticking his head up at all. 

I could see the Expedition was the only mobile vehicle left, so I had to get back in the action. I couldn't just sit back and let Quinn get away--most importantly, I couldn't just sit there and let him waste Simon the way he had wasted Gil. 

So I slammed it in reverse, headed back out on the road, and headed directly forward toward the van. I kept the restraining hand on Blair, both to calm him down (his heart was pounding so fast and loud to my hearing that I had tune it down) and to make sure he stayed safe. 

It wasn't long before I had to duck and just hold the wheel firm without seeing the road. Most of the gunfire was aimed at stopping us--so predominantly at the tires and grille of the truck. It still was too close for comfort. 

And as Quinn dragged Simon off to the helicopter, his words sliced me like a razor: "All you need is cape, Ellison." Shit, the bastard was right. Some superhero I am. I've stood idly by while he murdered a promising young cop and then later while his cronies took out a police convoy and he abducted the Captain of the Major Crimes Division. 

So when we started out on the search, I tried to make Blair stay behind. My won-lost record with Quinn was pretty sorry by then, and I didn't want to add Blair to the collection of casualties. He was, of course determined he was coming along. Like always, I couldn't say no to him. The truth was, the selfish part of me wanted him with me. I just feel more...complete when he's there, aside from the myriad of other things I feel. 

Leaving him alone was a terrible call on my part. I don't know what part of my ass I had my head stuck in when I did that, but I had these visions of Brody's dead body in that dumpster, and conflicting images of Simon's bullet-riddled body being left dangling from a tree or some other perverse theatrical set-up Quinn would devise. I _thought_ Blair would be safe there, and I didn't plan to be gone as long as I was. But once I got started, I really came close to finding them. Missed, of course, but came close. Yup, all I needed was the fucking cape. 

Anyway, Blair wasn't where I left him when I came back for him. I panicked. He didn't know his way around, he had a concussion--or at least I figured he probably did--and there was someone else out there besides Quinn firing automatic weapons. (Whatever happened to crazy mountain men who walked around with old shotguns and made you marry their over-endowed, scantily-clad blonde daughter, who had made the whole ordeal worth your while in a haystack somewhere?) The ones I run into carry machine guns and blow your ass off when they don't even know who the hell you are or why you're there. 

I was getting pretty unhinged wondering where he was, if he was okay, and trying to pick up his scent so I could follow him. Then, all of a sudden, I could hear, smell and _sense_ him nearby. In moments, he was bounding frantically toward me, slamming right into me before he noticed I wasn't a crazed killer. He started babbling at me right away, hunching against me almost, but I shushed him so I could hear if anyone was following him. It would have been easy to get lost in comforting him and calming his fears and then get our heads blown off by whomever was chasing him. 

When I heard it was all clear, at least momentarily, I sat him down on large rock and started checking out his head. He'd gotten another healthy blow to add to his collection, but his vision seemed okay, and he was coherent. He could follow my finger with his eyes and all those little tests to see if the wires are still connected. 

I sat down next to him and put my arm around him. He lost no time in wrapping his arms around my middle and holding on. I could feel his whole body shaking, both from the adrenaline and the fear. I just sat there with him a few minutes, rubbing his back and talking to him, letting him calm down. I knew his head had to be a source of violent pain by now, and from what coherent pieces of the story I got out of him, he'd had a gun waved in his face by a man who fully intended to pull the trigger and kill him in cold blood--for no better reason than the fact Blair was in his way. 

I wiped off his face with a handkerchief I had that was only marginally drier that he was. I knew we had to get started again, but I didn't have the heart to push him away yet. His breathing was still ragged, and his eyes were squeezed shut against the pain in his head. I pulled his head back down on my shoulder and just sat there with him, rubbing and patting his back and trying to get him to calm down a little. 

"Try to settle down, Chief. Work on your breathing. Being out of breath and your heart pounding so hard is making your head hurt worse. It won't be quite as bad when you calm down." I slid my hand into his hair and rubbed the one spot on his head that wasn't bruised or swollen. 

I apologized for putting him in danger. I felt so damned guilty, and shaken up, to think he'd almost been shot at point-blank range because I had deserted him. He's not a cop. Simon and I both are, and from a procedural standpoint, if I had to choose Blair's safety or Simon's safety, I should always choose Blair's, since he's a civilian. Cops go into situations knowing the risks, and signing up to take them by virtue of their jobs. If you can save a fellow cop or save a civilian, you're always expected to save a civilian. I don't know where the hell my brain was when I left him. I guess I felt I had such a good shot at rescuing Simon at that moment, and I didn't sense any sign of danger where I was leaving Blair--it seemed like the thing to do at the time. 

The truth is, I love and respect Simon as a friend and a colleague. But I don't think I could make it if I lost Blair. Certainly not if I lost him that way. I think I was just confused and stressed out and made a bad call. That's the only answer I can come up with after days and days of analysis. I've almost driven myself nuts with it. There was only one of me, four assholes to deal with, Simon was a hostage and Blair was injured and unarmed. Hell, I was as good as unarmed with one bullet. I wouldn't want to relive that experience for anything. 

Blair never did follow up on that date he made right before they air-lifted him out. How insensitive of me is it to be glad he was laid up long enough to cancel? 

And contrary to his opinion, I wasn't sadistically enjoying watching him swing from the bottom of an airplane. He'd lost too much blood, and the stoppage of the bleeding was too tenuous to load him in a car and risk a road trip. If there had been a way for me to go with him, I would have. 

When I finally saw him again, he was laid up in the hospital, dopey on sedatives and painkillers, looking a little too pale for my liking. I talked to him for a while, even though I know he was pretty much out of it. Seeing how drained he really looked, I realized how close I came to losing him. So I told him I loved him, though I doubt he heard me. 

He wasn't in the hospital very long, and when he was released, he was still weak as a kitten and shaky on the crutches. I talked Simon into giving me some of my mound of unused vacation to stay home and take care of him. That basically consisted of carrying him around, since he didn't feel all that good and the crutches were a little too much for him at first, and fixing his meals and helping him with his personal needs. I'm not the most experienced nurse in the world, so I was a little klutzy at helping him with his bath, but I didn't drop him or anything, so he survived. The big problem was that he couldn't put weight on that leg. The bullet had passed through, but it had left some damaged muscles and tendons and, well, a big hole (big surprise there). While the wound healed, he had to take it easy, so he didn't start bleeding again. 

Now, he's up to the point of getting around on the crutches, and I'm doing most of his physical therapy. It isn't terribly complex--mostly massaging and regaining strength. I just like the idea of me doing it on him instead of someone else. I realize therapy hurts because I've had it before, but I think I'm a better judge of Blair's pain tolerance than someone who doesn't know him, and he's calmer with me doing it. I tuned into his heart and his breathing patterns with the therapist, and he was nervous as a cat the whole time. I think he was just anticipating pain, and he usually wasn't disappointed. When I do it, I know there's some pain involved, but he's relaxed, and if he's hurting too much, we stop and either take a break or call it a day. Sometimes I've plunked on the couch next to him and given him a hug when he's having a lot of pain, or is tired out from PT. Mainly because I'm glad he's alive and the bullet went through his leg and not his head, and somewhat because I feel guilty that he was hurt at all. Again, hanging out with me got him hurt. His reply to that is that some professors have been shot by deranged students, so no profession is guaranteed safe. I guess there's logic to that. 

Quinn is back in the slammer. He'll never see the light of day again. His girlfriend is headed there too--different prison, obviously. So the $5 million is evidence (or I should say the $4.75 million or so that isn't toast) and no one got what they were after. 

Money does some bad things to people, that's for sure. 

Entry #33 

When I left home for the final time, Stephen and my father were on their way to Europe. I was on my way to military school for my senior year. Stephen smashed up the car in July, and so when I started school in the fall, it wasn't at my old school. I'd been through eleven years of school with those kids, and it never occurred to me when I walked out for summer vacation the previous June that I wouldn't go through the twelfth with my friends. But life is full of surprises. 

The old man figured I must need a more regimented environment, where I could learn some of the self-discipline and control he'd obviously been unable to instill in me. I have a news bulletin for him: my drill sergeant during my cadet training looked like Mr. Rogers compared to my father. 

I was determined to show him that not only did he not accomplish making me miserable--hence, punishing me for a full year not to mention not letting me graduate with my friends--but instead, that he'd inadvertently done a great thing for me. I knew that would piss him off more than if I failed. 

Actually, the military school was easier. It wasn't all about head games. Sure, every place has its share of politics and ass-kissing and game-playing, but there's something very straightforward about the military. Superiors give orders and you follow them. The word "can't" isn't an option unless you literally drop dead at the C.O.'s feet. And then you'd need a signed note from the coroner. 

I surprised myself by excelling there. I think the old man was confounded beyond words. I half expected him to drag me back home mid-year, but he didn't. I guess he wanted his friends to see that he was taking a "firm hand" with me. Actually, I often regret that I didn't smash up his fucking car. The only difference is, it was salvageable when Stephen got done. Now if I'd done it, they have had to scrape the fucking thing up with a spatula to move it out of the garage. If you're going to do something, do it right and do it completely. And to see the old man's face when he discovered _that_ mess would have been worth ten years on a chain gang. 

So I graduated a corporal with honors. My grades were high going in, and I maintained them there. There wasn't a hell of a lot else to do but study and jump through hoops. I got a full scholarship to Hillside College, which is a private college just outside of Cascade. They're a small outfit, but they have a great reputation. I got my degree there, and then decided to join the Army. Actually, it was the tediousness of job-hunting and the moronic questions that seemed to crop up in job interviews that convinced me I had just made a four-year mistake majoring in Business Administration. I should have stuck with my original thought, which was Social Science, but I had at least three advisors tell me I'd never make much money and would have an uphill battle finding a job. The were probably right, but the jobs I was applying for just weren't right for me. Oddly enough, being a cop wasn't at the top of my list. 

I went into the Army, and with my background from military school, I fit in there. Where it eventually led me is sort of old ground here. I don't even know why I felt the desire to rattle it all off again, except that running into Stephen dredged up all those old issues from the past. 

After what happened in Peru, I didn't want to hang around and be career military. I had experienced more than enough of it and wanted to "go home", though I was a bit clueless where that really was. I guess it was Cascade, since my family is from there. "Home" in the more specific sense turned out to be a big, drafty loft apartment I ended up buying when my back pay came through. The loft has a great view, plenty of space...and it had all sorts of potential, though for some reason, I didn't do a hell of a lot with it. I guess my heart wasn't in it. Could be why Carolyn said she felt like she was living in a warehouse. 

Being a cop seemed like a viable option at that point. I went through the academy and put in my time as a rookie. I was promoted to detective and assigned to Vice early in the game, when it appeared I had a knack for it. I'd gotten the chance to go under once or twice when I was still in uniform, and did well on those assignments. That, coupled with my Covert Ops training, propelled me up a little faster that average. 

Did I see my family at all during this time? Nope. I haven't laid eyes on the old man since the summer after military school. Since I didn't turn 18 until late July, when he snapped his fingers, I still had to jump. I was there exactly seven weeks. The morning after my birthday, I packed my stuff and left for the last time. 

We barely spoke during those weeks. He was always wrapped up with his work, which was fine with me. Stephen was hanging around the pool with his friends most of the time, drinking beer and figuring out ways to lure bikini-clad girls over to join them. 

The whole scene at home made me as sick as it always had, so I got two jobs that kept me away from the house about fourteen hours a day. Six hours of flipping burgers and six or seven hours of delivering flowers was a little mind-numbing, but it gave me my own spending money and kept me away from home. Plus, the old man used it as an example to needle Stephen. I wish I'd had enough hours in the day for a third job.  <eg> (Blair tells me that means "evil grin" on the e-mail, and man, it sure fits here.) The flower job wasn't too bad, actually. I wasn't nuts about my responsibilities of setting up the flowers at the local funeral homes. I did it right once when one of the regular guys was sick, so I got stuck with it all summer. Overall, it wasn't a bad job though. I got to drive around all day, everyone was glad to see me--with the possible exception of the corpses, who of course, at that point, didn't give a shit anymore. 

I'm back sliding. Of course, this whole damned entry has been one big back slide. What brought it all on was running into Stephen again. Looking back now, I'm glad it happened. We've made some degree of peace. I don't know if we'll ever be close. That would take a lot of time and effort from both of us. We'll see what happens. But at least we finally acknowledged that it was Dad who was the problem, not us. We were in a competitive, "kill or be killed" situation. Success was hard to achieve, because our father's standards were so damned high. Sometimes, you could win a cheap victory as a result of your brother's fuck-up. 

I really didn't want to go on that damned trip to Europe. I'd have loved it if I'd thought for one minute that Dad really wanted me along, or that he'd enjoy a single minute of it when I was the one going and not Stephen. But I knew better, and that my going was just a device to punish Stephen for the unspeakable crime of getting a "B" on an otherwise flawless report card. 

So in that case, I won at his expense. So he wanted revenge. You can be conditioned so that you just react. And at a point, you stop analyzing why you're doing it, or how right or wrong it is. I think that's what happened to Stephen. He was in a full combat mode of sorts, not really looking at who he mowed down, as long as he achieved his objective. And he did. He went to Europe, I went into exile. 

As it turns out, my life is better for that split having happened when it did. Maybe that's why I find it easier to be benevolent to Stephen. At any rate, I think Blair's rubbing off on me a little (God, if that isn't a Freudian slip, I don't know what is.). Unfortunately, I mean that only in the figurative sense. But he has a very high tolerance level for people's mistakes, and he's extremely forgiving. 

It never ceases to amaze me how easy it is for me to talk to him about things I've never voiced to another human. Not even to Carolyn. She knew I was estranged from my family, but she didn't know all the personal details that went with it. She got the public version. Blair got the whole story. 

When Stephen first showed up, and I knew there was a danger of a murder charge hanging over his head, I admit that I rode the power trip. He was in my world now, _I_ was the hotshot here, not him. So I let him sweat it out, I tried to steer the investigation toward him. I didn't really think he'd kill anyone, but it was fun scaring the shit out of him for a while. 

Blair worked me over pretty thoroughly between the actual resolution of the case and the rescheduled awards banquet. He kept after me to see the whole thing from Stephen's perspective, to understand that we were just kids when all that happened and we were reacting according to a set of values that weren't fully developed yet--and so on. 

Ultimately, I could see his point. Stephen and I have made some progress, but I still don't trust him. I have this nagging feeling he'd stab me in the back in a heartbeat if it benefited him. Nonetheless, at least we're speaking, and while I wouldn't necessarily turn my back on him for too long, it's a start. 

It would be nice to have some contact with family. Blair started in that I should really call my old man. I think it's the only time Blair and I have had a discussion recently that ended in my yelling at him and telling him to mind his own goddamn business. Needless to say, he was pretty hurt by that. Score one more for the old bastard. He managed to make me do things I hate myself for even "in absentia". 

Blair spent at least an hour sitting in a lounge chair on the balcony. It was about 45 degrees outside, and I know how much he hates being cold. I don't know what he was trying to prove by sitting outside, but I was sure there was a symbolism. I know I heard some little choked sounds coming from him, so maybe he thought I wouldn't hear him cry if he was outside. He should know better. 

Figuring he'd freeze to death waiting for me to figure it out, I grabbed the throw off the couch, put on my coat and went outside. 

Blair was huddled in the chair, wearing his coat with his hands thrust into the opposite sleeves to keep them warm. 

"You're going to freeze out here, Chief." I pulled a straight chair up next to where he sat. "Lean forward." He wordlessly obeyed, and I put the throw around him. He wrapped it around himself and snuggled down into it. "Look, I'm sorry I yelled at you. Is there any special reason you're trying to catch pneumonia?" 

"I just needed to think a while. You were right. I was out of line." There was something so sad in his voice that it made me feel like a bigger asshole than if he'd started fighting with me. 

"Maybe a little. But you didn't deserve to get your head snapped off." 

"Sometimes I just forget and stick my nose in your business." 

"Forget what?" Now I was puzzled. 

"Forget that I don't have any right to." He wasn't looking at me. He was too busy fiddling with a loose thread on the throw. 

"That still doesn't explain why you're out here freezing to death." I paused. "I heard you crying." 

"You know, Jim, just because you have that ability, you don't always have to use it." 

"Some things I can't help hearing. Look, Blair, I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. You were just treading in dangerous territory." 

"I won't do it again." 

"Sure you will. So will I." I let out a long breath. "I'm sort of a loner, Chief. You know that. I haven't had a lot of close friends in my life. It might take me a while to get used to having someone...this close." I felt like I wasn't making any sense, and he was being strangely quiet. That's when I knew I had really lacerated him. He wasn't bouncing back fast. And Blair's nothing if he isn't resilient. "You're my best friend. I don't want to fuck that up." 

"You mean that?" He finally looked at me, smiling a little. Aha! Progress. 

"I mean that. Now can we go back inside? It's cold out here." 

"Sure. How about hot chocolate?" Blair asked as he unfolded from his position in the chair and headed toward the loft. 

"What, no herbal tea?" 

"Nah. This is a hot chocolate by the fireplace night. Plus, my ass is frozen and tea just doesn't work as fast for me." 

That's my Blair. 

Entry #34 

I can't even picture what it would be like to lose eight years of your life without warning. I mean to lose it entirely--to sleep through it. (Although if someone had offered me that option when I was ten, and it would have meant I'd wake up old enough to leave home, I'd have probably considered it.) 

All joking aside, I really felt for Stacey. You don't realize how many _little_ things change in eight years in the world around you--not to mention the personal issues of changes in family and friends. In Stacey's case, she was on the run with her parents, so there weren't a lot of long-standing friends or other relatives. But her parents were dead, and she'd never really had a chance to deal with the fact she was totally alone in the world. That's scary. You go to sleep a kid, when your parents are ultimately responsible for everything (this is the only thing I acknowledge from my childhood that I sometimes miss--someone else being the one who has to do all the major worrying about life in general). You wake up 20, expected to adjust, take responsibility for yourself. Not to mention the complication of the fallout of your parents' activities still haunting you. 

Just looking around Cascade the other day, right after Stacey left for school, I realized how much had changed there in eight years. The big shopping mall on the edge of the most thriving retail district was a vacant cornfield, the restaurant across the street from the loft used to be a bar, the logo on the diet cola cans was different, every musician I used to see as I skimmed past MTV had big hair and leather instead of--I'm not sure what to call the hair, and flannel. Shows that were running on TV have been canceled for years, entertainers have died, a whole new crop are at the top, there's a different president...hell, the Internet happened while Stacey was asleep. 

Scary. Very scary. School is supposed to help her adjust. She'll do fine, I know. But do you every really adjust? The things you're used to have a sort of value you don't realize. And the time with the people around you--the ones who matter--is precious. When Blair almost died from the golden, and again when he was shot, I realized just how precious that time is. In retrospect, I can certainly learn that lesson from my mother's life. She was younger than Blair when she died, so her time on earth wasn't even that long. Stacey slept longer than I _knew_ my mother. Maybe that's why my father was never well-adjusted as he was raising us. Maybe I looked too much like her-- from the photos I've seen, I really do resemble her a lot. While there's a certain resemblance between Stephen and me, he looks like my dad. I take after my mother, and maybe there was something painful in that for him. Maybe it reminded him that he couldn't really ID her after the car accident, or so I found out later. That's not the kind of thing people tell a four-year-old. I investigated it myself once I became a cop, and what pitiful little drizzle of information was there, I got it. I needed to know. 

So Stacey is at school. I get a letter from her just about every week, sometimes twice a week. She always says to tell Blair "hi", but I never understood why she didn't bond with him more. He knocked himself out trying to draw her out, be supportive... It's not that she didn't like him. Not many people can _not_ like Blair. But she gravitated toward me. Maybe it was that I was closer to the age her parents were when they were killed. I'm a bit younger, but if she were 12, I'd be the right age to be her dad. Blair thought she had a crush on me, and in a way, she did. But the _why_ of it points more toward her wanting a male source of stability and protection to replace her missing father. 

Shit, give someone a couple psych classes in college and they think they're Freud. 

Anyway, I've been looking into some possible driving/camping excursions I could take. I need some time away from everything. Oddly enough, I even feel like I need some time away from Blair. It's not that I won't miss him the minute I start out on the road. But I have this feeling that I need to re-establish a separate identity for myself. He's got to be making progress on his dissertation, and when that's done, life is bound to take him elsewhere. I think it would be good for me to take a trip totally alone, find out that I do, in fact, function without Blair at my elbow every minute. 

I also have some thinking to do. Spending my life wishing for something that isn't going to happen isn't healthy and it isn't productive. I miss having someone in my life _that way_. Blair's here, but I need an excuse to touch him, I sure as hell can't kiss him or make love to him or take him out on a date or slow dance or make out on the couch--in other words, all the things that lovers do. I know there's a void in my life, and since I _can't_ fill it the way I want to, I have to figure out how to fill it. And with Blair right there every minute, it's sort of filled and I don't think about it. But almost two years of indecision is enough. I always want Blair in my life somehow, but I have to make the break and crawl off somewhere and let the wound heal and then put him in the right perspective in my life. Not as my significant other, or my lover, or my life partner--but as my friend. 

That having been said, I don't _feel_ any differently. I still want him in all the wrong ways. But wanting and having are two different things. Spending my life wanting isn't my idea of a good time. 

Don't know where I'll go yet. I've been up in Canada fishing before. I know a guy at work who has a cabin there--in the middle of nowhere, no telephone...and great fishing. Think I'll ask him if I can borrow it for a few days. The weather's turning nice now. In another couple weeks it'll be a lot warmer--and so up in Canada, it'll be great fishing weather. 

I hope Blair isn't too hurt when he isn't asked to go along. But this is something I need to do. 

Entry #35 

Well, I'll say one thing for the cabin. It's certainly rustic. I'm out in the middle of nowhere. I have to go outside to use the john, the fish didn't bite all day so now I'm eating a cold can of baked beans because the fucking hot plate doesn't work, and it's decided to be unseasonably cold. My ass is frozen, the chimney flue is clogged, so I came close to asphyxiating myself while trying to thaw out said ass, and it's at least twice as far from here to town as he said it was. The cell phone is out of range, I got a flat on the Explorer halfway up the trail through the woods, which he warned me were home to a pack of wild dogs. I guess I should be grateful I wasn't a life-sized Milk-Bone while I changed the tire. 

The bed is lumpy, there are rats in the crawl space (I can hear the little fuckers carrying on down there), the roof leaks--which I learned about fifteen minutes ago when the goddamn rain started. The spider I'm watching in the corner between the walls and the ceiling is only slightly smaller than Sandburg. His brother is building a house over the bed. 

I had promised Blair I'd call him tomorrow. If I live through tonight and tomorrow's a reasonable day for a little fishing, I might let it slide for a day. He's busy anyway, and driving back down five miles of washboard road that just about knocks your nuts up your nose every mile or so when you hit a pothole, doesn't appeal to me when I could be enjoying myself. 

I am going to enjoy this vacation if it kills me. 

Entry #36 

It rained the whole fucking day. I'm writing this son of a bitch of a diary in long-hand on a notepad while I sit on a couch whose springs should be registered as lethal weapons. I guess I don't have to worry about finding a woman. I don't think I'll be capable of fathering any children after trying to sit on the left cushion. 

Why was it again I came here? I know it had something to do with getting my head together. I think the only thing I've managed to come up with is a well-formulated plan to murder Tom Doherty in Vice, who loaned me the keys to this hell hole. 

Remember the rats I mentioned? Guess who I shared my toaster waffles with this morning? Guess the smell of fresh meat brought a couple of the hardier souls upstairs. 

Tomorrow, I'm driving into town to do three things: call Blair, check into a hotel, and buy some C-4 to put this place out its misery. 

Entry #37 

Back in civilization. Got a room at a bed and breakfast in the little town near the cabin. I have to share a bathroom, but hell, I had to walk fifty feet in the rain to use one for the past two nights, so this didn't look too difficult. 

I can't reach Blair. I've tried the loft, the university, the station...I'm getting worried. It isn't like him to disappear this way, and he never said he was going anywhere. If I can't get a hold of him by morning, I'm calling Simon and heading back. I have a bad feeling about this. 

I haven't really had a lot of time to reach profound conclusions about my life. Two nights were merely survival of the fittest between me, the rats, the spiders, the leaks and the mad dogs. Last night was spent sitting like a toad in this cramped little bedroom, trying to reach Blair every hour on the hour. 

Why is it that this trip is making me realize how much I love having him with me, and how much I worry about him when he isn't around, when it's suppose to help me snap out of the Sandburg Syndrome? 

Entry #38 

Called Simon at six this morning. He was delighted to hear from me. It's Saturday. I asked him to take his spare key and go to the loft to see if Blair was okay. I got the usual lecture about how Blair's a grown man and he's probably just out sowing some wild oats, nudge-wink. So how come he doesn't stay out all night two nights in a row when I'm home? It's not like I impose a curfew on him or anything. 

Simon finally agreed, after a few choice obscenities muttered under his breath, to go check on Blair. He called me back about seven-thirty and told me that the loft was empty, everything looked fine. He said judging by the disorder in Blair's closet, he couldn't tell if he'd taken clothes with him or not. 

That didn't make me feel any better. What if someone did something to him while he was sleeping? What if he met some bad fate while he was out somewhere else? If no one's around to look for him, it would be too late by the time anyone _did_ take action. 

I called Jennifer, his student assistant. She was supposed to be working a few hours a week with him at the campus during the summer sessions. Classes haven't officially started for the summer yet, so she informed me that he wasn't spending much time at the campus anyway, and she wasn't due back to work until next week. 

All this being equal, I'm heading back for Cascade as fast as I can get there. There are plenty of back roads, so hopefully I can make good time, especially with the lights and siren. 

Entry #39 

I've been home for over 24 hours now. There's no trace of Blair anywhere. His car is still parked out front. I can't tell if clothes are missing either. I went through everything in the room--and I hated doing that because it felt like a colossal invasion of his privacy. But if I could just find some concrete sign that he had packed. 

There isn't a lot of underwear in the dresser drawer, and I can't find a couple of his favorite shirts. His backpack and laptop are still here, so that makes me think that maybe he's just low on underwear and maybe he tossed the shirts for some reason or they're stuffed in some obscure location that only makes sense when you reason with Sandburg logic. 

I found a three-ring notebook in the drawer under the boxers and tank shirts that were there. A quick scan of the first page told me it was a diary. I snapped the cover shut and put it back just as fast. 

I pulled some strings with the PD and have a missing person report out on Blair, plus I've been out looking for him off and on all day. Nothing. Nada. Zip. He's just...disappeared. 

I realize the first thing I should do as a good cop is read his diary from cover to cover to see if there's anything going on in his life I don't know about that could get him into some kind of trouble. If he's involved in something he hasn't told me about, and he needs help, it might be the only way for me to find him. 

As much as I hate to do it, I guess I'm going to have to read it. I hope Blair can forgive me for that. I would never do that to him if I saw any other way. But he's been gone for at least two, maybe three days now, and I don't know what else to do. 

Entry #39 

I don't even know where to begin to deal with everything that's happened in the last few days. 

First, Blair wasn't abducted or dead or injured or even maimed a little. He was at St. Sebastian's. 

Guess what he was doing there? Trying to figure out how to get over the feelings he was having for me and get on with his life. 

I read his diary. When I think of all the time we've spent sending missed (and mixed) signals to each other, feeling lousy and lonely because we couldn't have what we wanted--and all it would have taken was one word from one of us. Both so damned afraid we'd lose what he had...we just kept faking it, living like friends... If all those lost months weren't so damned sad it would be funny. So all those little increases in heart rate, averted looks--they were all there. I wasn't imagining it. 

We made love as soon as Blair got home. I fell asleep in his room, after I read the diary. He's a verbose little guy, and it took me a few hours to get through it. 

When he got home, he woke me up, and all I could think of was that we had wasted enough time, and by some miracle, he was okay, and we still had that chance. I pulled him into my arms, and after lining him out about not leaving a note, we were all over each other. Clothes flew in all directions, and finally, after all this time of beating myself over the head about this "unrequited love", we were there, in bed together, skin on skin, humping fast enough to start a friction fire. 

It was magical, if not very romantic. After we both spurted all over each other like Old Faithful, the bed collapsed. Between the pure...joy of what we'd discovered about each other, and finally getting together--and the amusing scene of the ruined bed and the two of us naked, sticky and tangled up in the middle of it--we started laughing. We laughed for a long time before we got ourselves back together enough to talk about what was going on. 

It was only after the frenzy quieted that I had a chance to really stroke his skin, taste him, memorize the feeling of his naked body against mine. It was beyond anything I could have fantasized about. That body met every unanswered need that had gnawed at me for years now. Even before I met and married Carolyn, during all the years I had useless relationships that went nowhere, and then all these months--hell, years--of wanting him and not being able to have him... Physically, Blair is a joy to look at and to touch. He's not only responsive sexually, he's the most affectionate person I've ever been with. He meets every caress with a snuggle, every kiss with returned enthusiasm, and having him sleep in my arms is like finally feeling complete. 

I can't picture not holding him every chance I get--not just after we make love. We slept together on the couch this afternoon while I was watching the game on TV. Totally sexless, really. He just likes to crawl into whatever personal space I'm in and share it, so he decided that my body, where I was stretched out on the couch, was a more appealing resting place than the other couch. So he lay down on top of me, settled down, and dozed while I watched the game. 

This is the first time I've been with anyone I would have let do that. We weren't groping around, kissing, nothing. I was watching TV, and he wanted to be close to me, but he was bored with the game and tired out from a _very_ active morning, so he slept on me. And having that precious bundle of energy sleeping peacefully on my chest was the best part of the afternoon. Despite the fact that one arm went to sleep and I was stiffer than a board when I got up two hours later. 

So far all we've done is a lot of kissing, cuddling, making out, hand jobs and some pretty healthy humping. As for the future, we've pretty well decided that it's going to be the two of us. 

I really want to make love to Blair--all the way. I feel he'll probably say yes, but I don't know how I feel about that. I want to top, but I don't know if I'm ready to return the favor. But this relationship is worth whatever it takes. 

Entry #40 

I asked Simon if I could have a couple days off this week. He was a little curious as to why I suddenly felt the need for a vacation, when I supposedly just had one, but he okayed it. 

Blair and I drove to Oregon to a bed and breakfast I read about in the Sunday paper's travel section. Oh--remember those Sunday morning paper-reading sessions? The only downside to this relationship is that I think I read a grand total of about three pages of the paper this week. When I had Blair there in his underwear, all warm and smelling like us from our lovemaking the night before, the sports page was sort of anti-climatic. I'm wondering if I'll ever get sick of waking up to him and just lying there, kissing a little, saying all the stupid, sappy things that people in love say... When I have to be away from him now, it feels like half my soul's been torn out. I don't know how I feel about that feeling, since this is the first time I understood all those melodramatic songs about the agony of separation. 

Is it possible someone can go through this much of life and never have been in love before? For real? 

I wonder sometimes if Blair suspects me of having a diary, or of working on something other than police reports. He lets me use the laptop anytime he isn't using it. Right now, he's sitting there on the couch, those little glasses in place, reading a battered old text book he found at an estate sale that he claimed had something fascinating in it. Mostly, I was too busy watching him while he talked, loving his animation and enthusiasm...I didn't pay much attention to what he said. 

He looked up at me a few minutes ago, and gave me one of those big smiles. I've been physically distanced from him for all of an hour, and even now I want to go over there and pounce on him. 

Since we got back from Oregon, it's been even worse. Two days of being together all the time, and finally consummating the relationship. 

We got to the inn early afternoon, and checked in. It was situated on a wooded lot, in the country, and boasted nature trails for long walks in the woods. I don't think we saw the outside of our bedroom for more than a couple of hours in those two days, so we could have been in a camper by the side of the freeway for all the difference the setting made. 

I know the fair thing would have been to talk it over, decide who'd do what first and how far we'd go, but when we were finally there, I pounced on Blair. I don't think I've ever divested anyone of their clothing quite that quickly and efficiently, nor have I managed to somehow get naked myself while having some part of my body busily making love to my partner at the same time. 

I took my time learning every inch of his body. I picked him up and laid him back down on the bed so his head was on the pillows, instead of hanging over the other side. I started with his forehead, promising I was going to kiss every inch of him. And I did. I opened up my sense of taste and touch and smell and let Blair fill up every one. Of course hearing and sight seemed to dial up of their own volition, picking up on his little love sounds, his heartbeat, how amazing he looked...a little flushed, but relaxed and open...ready to let me in, in more ways than one. 

I kissed every part of his face, then nibbled down his neck to his shoulders. His skin is like silk. Except for that soft dusting of hair that shows up here and there. It's springy and soft and I love getting it between my fingers, just like I love tangling my hands in that beautiful stuff on his head. And I can never get over how good he smells. And tastes. 

His legs were spreading almost on their own as I worked my way down. It doesn't take Blair long to get worked up, and when I got down near his cock, I know he was thinking I was going to take him in my mouth. I did that once before, and surprisingly to me, it wasn't disgusting. It was Blair. And that made it wonderful. 

I ignored the telephone pole springing out of his groin, and kept on dusting his body with little kisses and licks. I never wanted to make love to somebody that completely before--nuzzling their armpits or their groin area wasn't really a big source of arousal for me. Until Blair. It's like the love that's there is so... _massive_...I just don't know how else to express it. I keep hoping that maybe he'll realize what he means to me if I can show him, somehow. I think he does. 

I kissed and licked the little creases where his thighs join his groin, I licked and sucked on his balls, and then I made a decision. 

I've never rimmed anybody in my life. Quite frankly, the concept has always made my stomach flip over and wretch. But then, so did the thought of giving another man a blow job. But this was no "other man", this was Blair--my Blair. And if I could do that for him, maybe he'd understand that he was the most precious thing on earth to me. 

He was writhing above me now, whimpering for me to do something about his "condition". I knew I was going to have to do something about my own before much longer. I also knew what I wanted most to do if he'd let me. 

I licked my way down from his balls, kissing and sucking at the sensitive skin just below his hole. I finally reached under his thighs and gave him a little push, and he drew them up for me. I hadn't really seen Blair this way before. We'd humped a lot, sucked each other off a time or so, and had hands everywhere. But this was new. 

I moved down and started licking at the little pucker. Blair let out a surprised little moan, and I could see his knuckles going white as he clutched handfuls of the comforter. I found making love to this part of Blair was no less wonderful than any other, and before I realized what I was doing myself, my tongue darted into his center. Not tentatively or slightly, either. It just slipped in and out, dragging little cries out of Blair with each movement. 

And he said the magic words while I thoroughly licked him and took him with my tongue: 

"I want...you in...there...please, lover." That's exactly how he said it. I'll never forget it. His voice was strained with arousal, and I know he was a little scared, but he also knew what he wanted. 

I moved up to kiss the backs of his thighs before encouraging his legs down to the mattress. He let me turn him on his side, and I dug around in the travel bag I'd brought for the lube. I had conveniently tossed it beside the bed for easy reach. 

He was already wet and a little slippery from my tongue, but I would never rely on something as temporary--and fast-drying--as spit to keep him comfortable. If, in fact, he could be comfortable with me shoving a considerable cock into that tiny little hole. At that moment, thinking of pushing inside of him, his opening looked like a pinpoint and my cock looked like a sequoia tree. If there's one thing I can't stand the thought of, it's hurting him in any way. 

I tried to turn my thoughts positive. If I got hung up on thinking I was going to hurt him, I'd deflate like a punctured balloon and the party would be over. 

I started coating him with the lube, first with just one finger. He seemed to actually like that degree of intrusion. So I let him get relaxed, just massaging him with my finger, feeling the opening stretch a bit. Soon, I lubed up another finger and returned with two. There was initial resistance, then he relaxed, thrusting his rear back toward my fingers. Again, I let him get relaxed and used to the sensation of the two fingers moving, massaging and stretching. 

"Feel okay, sweetheart?" I asked him. I started calling him 'sweetheart' and 'baby' after the first time we made love. He never objected. He reciprocated by calling me 'lover' or just 'mine'. I don't know why I love that so much when he does that, but he often just says "I love you, mine." And I'm jelly. He could have anything he asked for. My life, the keys to my truck, first choice of radio stations for the rest of our lives... I don't know where he came up with it, but I never knew what love really felt like until he fell asleep in my arms after mumbling, "I love you, mine." 

I got off track. He answered me with a very pleased groan and a wiggle of his hips. I slowly withdrew the two fingers and he muttered something unintelligible but distinctly disappointed. 

"Need more slippery stuff, baby. And another finger. Hang on." I knew the next step was really going to stretch him, and he probably wouldn't like it at first. I kissed his shoulder and cuddled him closer before slowly working the three fingers inside. He was more relaxed than I thought, having enjoyed the extended internal massage he'd been getting. I reached around front and found his cock, pumping that while I worked the three fingers inside him, stretching and preparing. He really started moving with me then. As vocal as he is, Blair isn't a screamer during sex. But he makes these delicious little love noises--a whole symphony of little whimpers and grunts and groans--that just drive me nuts. He was doing all that now, and I finally dragged a little outcry from him when I found his prostate. I didn't know at first how that'd feel--I know it's intense, but that can be good or bad. For Blair, it was apparently good. He got almost impossibly hard after that, and by the way he was taking all three fingers, thrusting his hips back to make me really fuck him with them, I knew he was as ready as he'd ever be. 

I slid the fingers out and greased myself up. With as much lube as I'd used, I expected to slide right through him. 

Stretching or no stretching, the first few seconds was touch and go. His heart rate skyrocketed, his erection faltered, his breathing got ragged--in other words, everything about his body let me know that this definitely didn't feel as good as the fingers did. I asked him if I should stop, but he told me to give him a minute. Leaning my forehead on his back as we lay there, I wondered how much longer I could just stay there with the head just inside. I pushed forward a little, almost unconsciously, and he let out a moan that was pure pain. I froze. This was a disaster. I figured we had our answer, and it just wasn't going to work. No way in hell was I going to go any further. It was as if Blair read my mind. 

"Come on, lover, I can take a little more now," he encouraged in a strained voice. I _did_ feel his muscles relaxing. So I pushed in a little further, and then waited. That was the key. I had to wait for Blair's okay. Fear had made him tighten up on me when I moved too fast, so I slowed it down and let him set the pace. I was in serious pain by the time he encouraged me to move again. It took about four increments before I made it all the way to the hilt. Once I had, we both just lay there, exhausted and adjusting. I know I could have just pushed in and he'd have probably adjusted to it, but I wasn't willing to hurt him any more than absolutely necessary, and I didn't want to tear him by forcing the issue. 

"I think you can move now," he said, after what seemed like an hour. I guess in reality, it had only been a minute or two. 

I started helping him out by keeping his mind on his cock for a few minutes, pumping away. My other arm wrapped around him and held him close to me. When I started thrusting, it was gentle, and pretty soon he was moving with me, enjoying it. He came first, and I've never felt anything like those muscles clamping down on me in waves while he spurted all over my hand, gasping out my name. I finished soon after that, pumping a few times more, a little faster than before. I just held him after I came, waiting to soften a little so I could slide out without hurting him too much. I knew he'd be sore no matter what precautions we took. Even the woman I'd had anal sex with who liked it admitted that she didn't do it often, and was sore afterwards. 

Not that I'm comparing Blair to a woman or anything, but since I haven't had sex with other men before, it's the only frame of reference I've got. 

I asked him if he was okay as soon as I slipped out of him. He just looked up at me with this big sleepy, sappy smile and said "I love you, mine." I took that as a yes and pulled him into my arms and cuddled him while our arms and legs seemed to get all wrapped around each other of their own volition. I hooked a corner of the comforter to bring up over us--mainly over Blair because he hates being cold. 

"Thank you, sweetheart. That was...more beautiful than I thought." And it was. The physical sensations blew me away. The love shocked me by the sheer power of it. 

We slept for quite a while all tangled up that way. When we came to, I got dressed and drove into town for some food. Blair was still drowsy, and I think he wanted some private time to clean up and...I don't know, just kind of get his thoughts together. When I got back, he'd made the bed and turned it back again, showered and had the room lit with candles. The little devil had packed them in his suitcase. He was sitting there on the bed, reading a book, glasses halfway down his nose, when I came in. 

I showered and then joined him in bed, and we fed each other the cooling Chinese take-out along with the champagne we'd brought with us. It was kind of a gastric nightmare, but orange glaze tastes best when licked off Blair's lips, so Chinese was a must. 

We didn't actually make love again that night. Blair admitted, after much pressuring from me, that he was sore from earlier, even though he enjoyed it while we did it. He was just as happy to cuddle and kiss and fool around and let it go at that. That was fine with me. 

Entry #41 

Back in the daily grind again. Blair's at the university part of the time, and I'm at work. The best times are when we're together, even if we're working a case or washing the vehicles. I keep kidding Blair that all he needs to wash his car is a bathroom cup of water and a toothbrush. He responded by spraying me with the hose. Of course, I had to tackle him for that. 

I have to remember that we're in a public parking lot when I do things like that. I was glad the couple that passed us on the way to their car missed the part where I had both hands down his shorts groping his wet ass. 

I want to buy a house. I know that sounds ridiculous--to buy a house so you can grope your partner's ass outdoors. It's more than that, though. I'd like a place that we could really have some privacy, maybe have a pool. Blair could have a better herb garden than the one he grows in the old pan on the balcony. We could lie outside at night and watch the stars, make love in the grass... 

Yeah, I know. I'd need an estate in the country to get away with doing that outside. I can dream, can't I? Meanwhile, I have to learn to keep my hands to myself when we're outside. Funny, but I never wanted a house when I was with Carolyn. All it meant is I'd have to mow the lawn, trim hedges and generally get into the whole suburban homeowner thing. I still don't want a house in the suburbs, sandwiched in with screaming kids on all sides, nosy neighbors with beer bellies and neighborhood associations. But someday I want to buy us a really nice house, on some land...I want...permanence, I guess. 

Blair topped the other night. I guess I'm stalling by going off on talking about houses. I've been trying to figure out how I feel about it. I guess since it happened, I keep hesitating to ask that of him now, because I know it's a hell of a strain. I mean, it's beautiful when it happens with someone you love as much as we love each other, but it sure takes some getting used to. 

Blair was as gentle and careful and patient as humanly possible. I don't know where that guy got his control from, because I took a hell of a lot longer to enjoy myself than he did when things were reversed. I don't know if it's some deep-seated psychological thing, or if my asshole is circumference-challenged or if he has an oversized cock that should be registered as a lethal weapon. Whatever it was, it felt like I was stretching out to accommodate a baseball bat--wide end first. 

He worked on me a long time with his fingers, and by the time he got three in there, I was enjoying myself. If anyone had told me before that I would enjoy having three fingers wiggling around up my ass, I wouldn't have believed it. But lying there on the bed, spooned together like before--only reversed--I was getting relaxed and it felt pretty good. 

I think it was just instant panic when I knew the Big Moment was coming. He'd spent long enough getting me ready that it should have been easy. And maybe that's what was wrong--I was beating myself up for not accommodating him as fast as he did me, and that made me tense up more, and it the more tense I got, the more sure I was messing everything up. 

I don't know if I could have stopped in the middle of everything like Blair did, and started over. He had to be dying back there, but when he could see I was tensing up and that the partial penetration was hurting me, he withdrew again and went back to using his fingers. Although, if he's anything like me, knowing he was causing considerable pain was enough of...shall we say, a deflating factor. 

The second try worked. I guess I knew he wasn't going to do anything I couldn't handle, and he'd reassured me over and over again that it wasn't strange that it was this difficult. I'm just used to believing what Blair tells me, even if he is sugar-coating things a little. 

When he was all the way inside, and I had time to get used to being filled up like that, it started coming over me in waves what it meant. I had part of Blair inside of me. Not only were we joined, but I finally _was_ doing something that conveyed the magnitude of what I felt for him. I've never given myself over like that to anyone else, and I never will. Only Blair. Only he would be worth the physical effort to do it, and only with him would I end up enjoying it. And he's the only person I'd trust with that kind of power and control. You're pretty helpless when you're impaled that way, and being hurt is almost a given. 

Almost. I don't mean I wasn't sore afterwards. I felt like someone had driven a dump truck up my ass. But I wasn't bleeding, and it wasn't severe enough that I'd never want to do it again. To my amazement, I actually liked it. When we were moving together, joined that way...it was like the pain and effort of getting there just faded. 

We had a really good talk the next morning. Any talk we have while we're lying there in bed naked and sticky and all wrapped up together is a good one, but then I enjoy talking about getting new spark plugs if I have a naked Blair in my arms while I'm doing it. 

But we talked about the whole sex issue. What we liked, didn't like. What had gone well and what had been a minor disaster. We both enjoyed the experience of having intercourse--and we both liked it both ways. But we kind of agreed it wasn't something we'd be looking for every night. We both have killer schedules, and sometimes just a simple hand job and a lot of cuddling does the trick. The Big Moment isn't something either one of us are likely to want to rush through, so that's something we do when we have time to do it right, make it last, and make it good for both of us. Maybe someday when we're experienced at this stuff (and let me tell you, I'm willing to do a _lot_ of practicing), we'll be better able to throw each other on the floor and fuck each other blind, but for now, we both need to _get_ experienced and take it at a comfortable pace. 

Entry #42 

We faced a major challenge today. I sort of forgot myself and kissed Blair on the mouth when he dropped me off at work. The truck's in the shop, and I can borrow a car from the garage at the station, but I needed a lift to get there. He had to go to the U, but he took me to work first. I didn't notice that a couple of guys I used to work with in Vice were walking past the front of the car where Blair had pulled up to drop me off. 

He saw the double-take and strange looks we got, and I didn't like the way it seemed to make him feel. Like my best kept dirty secret. 

We never made any announcements to anyone. We've gone on like we always have, working and living together. Blair has honored that and not spread it all over the campus, although I know he was a little disappointed when I admitted that it would be easier for me if we weren't "out". At least not in so many words. When we once got together, he was ready to take out an ad in the local papers, put up a billboard, and shout it from the top of the Social Sciences Building at Rainier. 

I was ready to keep on keepin' on, living my life and having relationships with my coworkers that were unchanged by my new relationship. 

I hate myself when I realize that it hurt Blair very much to keep on going just like always, only if anything, with less touching than we'd been doing before. I was conscious now of what people would think, because there _was_ something there for them to discover. Before, I didn't care what anyone thought, because there was nothing going on. 

He watched them go into the entrance, deep in conversation about the "aberration" they'd just witnessed. Well, I could hear it for myself, but Blair certainly surmised it. 

"I'm sorry." His voice was barely audible as he looked down at the steering wheel. 

"It's not your fault, sweetheart. I'm the one who kissed _you_ , remember?" 

"Yeah, but it's my fault because when you drop me off at the U, I always kiss you goodbye. You just got in the habit, and I shouldn't've ever done that because you didn't want to be out." 

I thought back of all the quick but sweet little kisses I get from Blair whenever he's coming or going. He never does it anywhere it would make me uncomfortable, but anytime we're in his territory, or out of the view of prying eyes, he always kisses me goodbye, or hello, for that matter. Now he was apologizing for that. I couldn't stand that. 

So I pulled him over toward me and kissed him again, longer this time, with plenty of tongue. 

"Don't ever apologize for kissing me, sweetheart. I treasure those kisses, just like I treasure you. Got it?" I watched him fighting tears, and then a big smile took over, forcing a couple out on his cheeks. 

"I got it. I love you, mine." He reached up and touched my face, and I captured his hand and kissed it. "Do you think they'll make trouble?" 

"If they do, they won't get far. Simon isn't going to come down on me over it, and I doubt like hell he'll even be shocked by it." 

"But they don't let people who are involved be partners, do they?" Blair was looking at me with real panic in those big blue eyes now. 

"That would be true if you were a cop. But you're not. There's nothing on the books that says I can't sleep with a consultant to the Major Crimes Division." I smiled when I said that, because it always made me happy that Simon had seen fit to put in his bid to have Blair's services be limited to Major Crimes. The chief had balked at first, because once Blair had proven himself on a couple of cases, he felt Blair could be of value to all the departments. He'd pirated Blair once or twice from me to put him in another department on an difficult case that would utilize his expertise--one was the theft of artifacts from a local dig site, and another was a very weird ritual homicide which was the domain of a task force. 

It was after the homicide case that I went in to Simon and basically blew up at him. Blair had been dragged to crime scenes, made to go to the morgue and look at the carvings on a partially decayed corpse--I was irate. Blair was having nightmares, not to mention the fact he staggered out of the morgue and lost his lunch in a nearby wastebasket. 

I told Simon that Blair was not the equivalent of Mike Hampton's drug-sniffing dog that anyone could borrow when the case warranted. And even Duke didn't go out on calls without Mike. It's true that Blair is an adult, and a very competent and expert one at that, but he's not a cop, and he's not used to rotting corpses and mutilated corpses and ritual homicide. Not that anyone's _used_ to that, but cops are trained to deal with it. Blair isn't. 

Simon put in the request, fought for it, citing our workload and the fact that we have murder cases and other, well, "major crimes" to deal with on a daily basis. He told the chief that having Blair removed from our department might not be a hardship at the moment it happened, but could cause us problems when something arose quickly, as it often did. There was a lot of bickering, but fortunately, Simon's in pretty good with the old curmudgeon, and he got his way. And the way it reads, Blair isn't my partner, per se, just another person who works in the same division. Simon just "assigns" him to consult on _my_ cases. I knew there was a reason I liked Simon. 

"I don't want to ruin your life, Jim," he finally said. He was looking wilted again. I could see I was going to have to play smashface a little more and lick his tonsils a few times before he got the message that he _was_ my life. So that's what I did. When he came up for air, he was panting and looked like he was ready to go a hell of a lot farther right then and there. 

"You _are_ my life, dummy. Don't forget it. The only way you'll ruin it is if you aren't in it. Got that?" 

"Got it," he responded, smiling and blushing a little. I kissed his cheek quickly. 

"Gotta go, sweetheart. Call me about lunch, huh?" I said as I got out of the car. 

"Why don't you pick me up about one--in whatever sleek machine you can get from the garage." Blair knew the sarcasm would get me, as the last car I'd borrowed from the police garage had died in the middle of a high-speed chase. The whole issue of having my truck in for service every five minutes pissed me off because the department had clamped down on me and wouldn't help out with my insurance--after I totaled two trucks in as many years. So now I was driving a "classic." 

"Just watch your mouth, Sandburg," I admonished him through the open window of the door I'd just closed. I felt stupidly sad to see him put the car in gear to drive away. //You're in bad shape over that little guy, Ellison.// 

"I'd rather watch yours." He winked at me and pulled out, leaving me there to contemplate what I'd gotten myself into by falling in love with him. And on those happy thoughts, I headed in to work with a sappy grin on my face. 

The End...for now ;-)


End file.
